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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28908456">Saudade</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/epicionly/pseuds/epicionly'>epicionly</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Developing Friendships, Feelings, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Mystery, Post-Star Trek: Into Darkness, Telepathy/Mind Meld, Visions</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:13:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>42,638</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28908456</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/epicionly/pseuds/epicionly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“It would never be,” Spock says. To crave it. To envy it. To take it as your own. “I have been left knowing, and I have been left wanting.” For what he acknowledges as a potential future, he disdains it as well.</i><br/> <br/>With a mostly empty upper chain-of-command after Khan, Starfleet halts outgoing advanced missions, postponing the five-year mission until further notice. Spock alternates primarily between teaching at the Academy, training potential graduates in the field as a science officer, and visiting James Kirk during his rehabilitation. After a small altercation on a training trip, Spock returns to his duties unaffected, outside of visions of the same aged, grey-haired Human man who treats him with unfamiliar familiarity.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James T. Kirk &amp; Leonard "Bones" McCoy &amp; Spock, James T. Kirk/Spock, Mild James T. Kirk Prime/Spock Prime, Spock &amp; Nyota Uhura</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Star Trek Valentine's Bang 2021</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For the <a href="https://startrekvalentinesbang.tumblr.com/">Star Trek Valentine's Day Bang</a>! Going to be coming back this to edit later, but current credits:</p><p>Many thanks to the Mods for amazing organization and their flexibility! Thanks to my superstellar Artist, Winter (whose art you'll see in a future chapter), Franny and jazzypizzaz for all those sprints and begging Lorebot for quotes, Momo for asking the Real questions, and Awesome to whom this is dedicated!</p><p>This fic is almost done, and has an ending. I'm just currently posting the first 40k of the bang thus far per bang permissions (EDIT: Sorry! Been swamped with school. Should be uploading the March Break. I think there's about ~3 chapters left to be posted? But just a handful of finnicky scenes I need to write to tie stuff together). TW at the end of the work. Cheers!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>CHAPTER  1</p><p>
  <em>“Spock.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yes, sir?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It has been too long. No antidote known will save his life.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Is there nothing you can do?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I can prolong his life, but he will be in pain. Or I can release him from life. I will need your decision. He is your pet.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Release him. It is fitting he dies with peace and dignity.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>[…]</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"There was a decision to be made. A direction for my life had to be chosen. I chose Vulcan.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>--Yesteryear</em>
</p><p>--</p><p>In truth, it only takes Spock a frightening instant to understand that Khan’s blood might not even take. It is an understanding that chills his blood and renders cold his hands. As he heaves Khan over his shoulder to transport him, he has to remind himself that Khan needs to stay alive…not just for the first few blood extractions. Spock cannot wring the man’s neck or snap his spine in two. He cannot and should not bruise him further, carve a wreck out of Khan’s body in the way he feels with his whole being. And yet, even as Khan shows signs of awakening on that biobed, Spock thinks he could end him easily. He could break his bones. He could kill him. Both, he could do in such cool calculated clarity.</p><p>These feelings, which swallow him whole, are too Human in their vastness.</p><p>“Your crew isn’t dead,” McCoy tells Khan because Spock won’t. Spock cannot speak to this madman, or else every string of control in his body will snap with just one sound. McCoy does it, because humans fill in silences with explanations and feelings. McCoy does it, because as a doctor he has an oath sworn, and so he speaks to Khan as if he were a patient. “All seventy-two are alive. Those torpedoes beamed aboard your ship empty of their cargo.”</p><p>In spite of Spock holding the phaser to his forehead, and the countless other security officers pointing theirs around him, it seems Khan is contemplating his options for once. Quiet, brimming with ceaseless deliberation, he murmurs, “I see.”</p><p>There’s a sneer in those words as there is a quiet breath of something else—something bitter, bleak, and human. Relief.</p><p>Spock contemplates rapidly before he can even evaluate the impropriety of it. How fast will Khan die if he were rapid-fire stunned at point-blank in repeated succession? How quickly will someone stop him until success?</p><p>He stops. Grief curls around his wrist, where McCoy has placed a steady hand briefly against Spock’s in warning. Like the churning of the waves following the tide, the touch and all its emotions course through. Spock for all his resentment cannot distinguish its origin point—whether or not McCoy’s emotions run stronger or Spock’s own.</p><p>“I won’t take more blood from you than the human body can survive without,” McCoy says. It’s an emergency. Under no circumstance else would he have condoned this, Spock understands, but Khan does not deserve even the ethical consideration of permission. With a glance at the cryotube, Khan knows quite clearly what it is they want from him, and why they would want it. “But no less, either.”</p><p>“Depending on the state of brain decay before you decided to freeze him, it may be futile. But you seem determined, so why not? Perhaps a miracle you wish for might happen again.” Khan’s hand unfurls open, so willingly it becomes suspicious.</p><p>Spock reaches out quietly, tense. “Doctor—"</p><p>McCoy pushes Spock’s hand away and steps closer. He rolls Khan’s sleeve up and presses the hypospray into vein.</p><p>“And what now of me?” Khan asks, after a breath or two. He twitches his hands under McCoy’s touch as another hypotube draws blood, as McCoy switches out. Tube after tube, until neat rows line up, up until the maximum of one pint is drawn. “Is this where you kill me?”</p><p>“We’ll put you back into the cryotube with your crew. And you can stay together frozen solid for eternity as far as I’m concerned.” McCoy passes the hypo to an assistant.</p><p>Khan laughs, low and full of contempt. “Mercy may be your mistake.” His eyes sweep to Spock. He turns his face to display a side of cheek that Spock had punched barely forty minutes ago. “But as you’ve been good to me, Doctor, I will help you.”</p><p>He is cooperative, too cooperative, even going as far as to tell McCoy the best way to treat his blood into something more stable—more immediate and effective and less harmful overall—for Jim.</p><p>It is the best revenge against Spock. Because from that moment on, Spock cannot picture making Khan dead because he needs Jim to be alive.</p><p>With the warp core recalibrated and reconnected to the rest of the ship, more than enough power remains. Casualty checks wait for later; the Enterprise’s crew limp and settle where they can. There’s no point clearing the room. The Enterprise’s exterior hull damage from re-entrance into Earth’s atmosphere is easily fixable. Twisted walkways destroyed interiors and damage from the USS Vengeance is not. Med bay is busy enough, and eyes are watching. Outside of the med team’s efforts, the focus is always on one biobed in particular.</p><p>McCoy places Jim behind a radiation barrier first, then on life support second. It’s all theoretical at the end of the day; Khan’s blood—an Augment’s blood—sounds like a fairy tale: resistant to disease, capable of cell repair at an indescribable level, and even reversing damage made by nuclear radiation. Regardless, genetic engineering was banned decades ago, feared about the extremism as must as it had been about Khan and his crew—history’s wares who will disappear behind a sealed vault eventually. But bring a man back to life, McCoy reasons aloud, and the radiation would kill him all over again before Playing God would fix him.</p><p>Khan laughs at that.</p><p>It takes McCoy time to load up the blood, in the time they remove Jim from cryotube. Khan watches from his corner, content. Spock estimates how long it has been since—<em>since</em>. He compares his estimation of the resilience of the human body post-cryostasis, compared to what he has seen in the readings of Khan’s own body.</p><p>Then, treated blood finally passes through Jim’s thawing veins.</p><p>McCoy swallows heavily.</p><p>Spock stares at the IV drip until he hears it. A beep, two, three, four. In succession even.</p><p>The doctor sits down abruptly as the biobed scans begin to display readings. He puts his face into his hands. “Fuck,” McCoy says, for the two of them, as the Med bay quiets into silence. “<em>Fuck</em>.”</p><p>Nyota steps closer and presses a hand on the small of Spock’s back. Spock watches as McCoy leans forward and breathes, observes the wetness of his eyes. Feels, illogically with his whole being, the way the crewmembers around them breathe again, and holds himself as tall as he can make himself.</p><p>--</p><p>(Jim lives.</p><p>Khan says, “My turn,” and they make good on the promise to put him back under.)</p><p>--</p><p>He spends the night at Nyota’s apartment for the reasons that it is closer to the decontamination and medical centre, and she has leftovers in the fridge that need to be finished.</p><p>“I cannot stay,” Spock confesses. The dishes dry on the rack. He places the remaining cleaned and dried food containers back in the cupboard. Though the apartment is of comfortable temperature to him, he finds it difficult to settle and calm. There is little else to do here.</p><p>“Even if you go to the hospital, they won’t let you in.” She is picking through her closet for a change of clothes. Nyota’s hair has been loosened. The strands droop to the floor before she decides it is better to tie it up into a messy bun. “Wait until visiting hours.”</p><p>“I would not—”</p><p>“If you know you won’t sleep, just know I need the company.” She turns her head, and noting his expression, Nyota straightens. She walks to him, and steps into his instep. She cups his face in her hands, her voice low. “And I know you need it too. What do you need me to do that will help you?”</p><p>He hesitates. Her emotions flit through her touch, but they are quiet in controlled echo; great empathy, worry, and gentle concern. “I am…” He cannot express himself well, so he presses his forehead against hers. “I will be fine.”</p><p>He thinks he should be if he is Vulcan. Already he is compartmentalizing the events, the adrenaline of the countdown, and the precision to time against Khan’s words. Exhaustion would come sweep him away if he would let it, but he alone controls how he reacts and how much he shows he feels. He is together again, not mixed raw with guilt and anger and sadness.</p><p>(For now.)</p><p>“For me, I don’t think I’ll be okay for a while,” Nyota admits. She knows him, and so she does not push. “But all I can think is that we’ll just have to wait. That’s all we can do for now.”</p><p>His and Nyota’s comms beep. She picks up faster to look.</p><p><em>Jim’s still good so far. Here’s the room number</em>, sends McCoy. <em>You can come anytime between 1000-2000 hours.</em></p><p>Spock sees it, memorizes the room number, and plans out his route. Even so, the words on Spock’s comm do not register until he sees Jim for himself in the morning, and even then, the heartbeat on the bioreadings seems all the more so unreliable. Each breath is irregular; they have him on a machine in case he stops.</p><p>Spock stands to go. Nyota remains seated.</p><p>“You’re leaving already?” McCoy asks. “You just look and see that he’s fine, and you’re going?”</p><p>“I am the Commander of the <em>Enterprise</em>, Doctor,” Spock replies. “I must keep to my responsibilities, as currently, Captain Kirk is not fit to do his.” It will be of great help; and though McCoy may assume it, the world does not pause at anyone’s whim.</p><p>The explanation breeds only disgruntled heat. “It’s not going to kill you to ask how he’s doing first.”</p><p>There is not much to ask. “You yourself have acknowledged he is ‘fine’. His bioreadings indicate his health and heart rate are in acceptable safe ranges. As he is no longer under a radiation barrier, I must presume he is no longer irradiated and in no danger of immediate cell death. Whether or not I remain to ask how he is doing is extraneous and wasted time.”</p><p>McCoy scowls. Spock is not sure he should elaborate further. There is much to do in the follow-up of an unrecorded terrorist pursuit. Though he presumes Admiral Marcus to have arranged these matters under a more covert patrol of sorts, he will have to inspect and investigate them further. Furthermore, under Starfleet regulations, he will have to report on the status of the <em>Enterprise</em> on re-entry, oversee to the treatment of her crew, and fulfill other such tasks in the absence of a Captain.</p><p>And to see Jim—Kirk, he tells himself firmly—like this now, sends him amiss. He could not sit here doing nothing. He would think and compare the colour of Kirk’s face to the lack of it. He would play it again in his mind’s eye without stop, the knowledge of what almost was, and be compromised for it if he lingers.</p><p>“I will be back after,” Spock adds.</p><p>Perhaps he gives himself away, either in face, tone, or intention. McCoy’s eyes grow less sharp, and the frown less pronounced. He nods. He even goes as far as to put his hand on Spock’s shoulder, a gesture that is not familiar to the two of them.</p><p>The touch is heavy as it is warm. McCoy sighs. “I’ll update you if there are any changes.”</p><p> “Leonard,” Nyota says, as Spock departs. She has picked up the chart on the side of the biobed, and the doctor turns his attention away. “What does this mean?”</p><p>Following the miscellaneous return procedure and protocol, Spock falls into routine almost automatically as soon as he starts. He answers to Starfleet Command and he assists in documentation and reporting. He attends meeting after meeting, listens to reprimand and explains to silent ears. Eventually, a decision is made in regard to the <em>USS</em> <em>Enterprise</em>’s crew and her Captain, and Spock does not refute it. As for offers made to place him on a different ship in the interim, Spock refuses them politely.</p><p>In Captain Kirk’s stead, Spock as second-in-command approves of the repairs to the <em>Enterprise</em>, and he signs off on recommendations and requested documentation for her crew. He informs the more senior members who in turn inform their divisions. The ship will be docked for repairs for at least a year, after all. There is little sense is keeping it a secret. Every opportunity must be given. And for those who no longer are among them, Spock signs letters that will be sent to grieving families and he assists in preparations for the upcoming military funerals.</p><p>Spock visits the hospital every chance he is able. At times he sees other members of the crew. There are words shared, and conversations had. McCoy estimates that after careful observation, there will be no need to keep Kirk in the induced coma. He will awaken naturally in a few days; thus, Spock takes initiative to comm his elder self.</p><p>Spock Prime is as relieved as he is concerned. Spock is as forthcoming as he can manage.</p><p>--</p><p>Three messages sit in his inbox when Spock finally arrives to his own apartment after another meeting. The first he opens after having made himself a cup of black tea. It is a confirmation for the time of the visit. He looks at the second one: a forwarded posting within the science department’s faculty for an Academy position he has been told of. The conditions are not at all disagreeable, but it would require him to remain mostly on Terra. Spock has estimated that academic flexibility would serve him well in the year should he require resources. The third one, however, has him draw pause. It is yet another offer to serve on a starship.</p><p>Spock scrutinizes the contents, from the name of the sender to the content. It has been identified as important by his programmed filter, and while it has not been sorted into the Urgent folder, it has been marked for later reading in a subfolder Spock rarely frequents. By professional standards, Spock is two days late in response due to this oversight.</p><p>He begins drafting a prompt response immediately, words practiced enough. Writing, after all, is simple and straightforward. He thanks for the opportunity and…</p><p>Spock slows down when he deliberates his next words. It is certainly an excellent opportunity and would add great credential to his name and service record. Would he accept it? Would he deny it? He looks back at the second message with its Academy offer and weighs the benefits. He is no longer as pressed for time as he was initially a week and two days ago. It would be doable if he wills it. Space again in its unknowns, a life spent outside of mere academia.</p><p>And yet, how illogical. He hesitates now.</p><p>It is only when he checks the third message again that Spock draws pause. His fingers still at the keyboard as he considers the superfluity of his own intentions. To his current knowledge, that starship has already filled the position and is en route to a different system.</p><p>Spock taps a key. With it, all messages and singular draft disappear. A clean inbox looks back at him.</p><p>Twenty minutes later, his door rings, and Spock rises.</p><p>“I will make tea before we begin, Elder,” he says, after his greetings.</p><p>“That would be most amenable,” answers Spock Prime.</p><p>--</p><p>Living organisms must eventually cease biological function. Every life must come to an end, and every life has a time obliged to which it must. Life cannot exist indefinitely.</p><p>It is a simple truth of the world, one that cannot be bargained with, and holds no answering authority.</p><p>And yet still, Spock struggles with the strength of his regrets. I-Chaya closes his old eyes, slumped before him. The old Healer puts away the hypospray. This could have all been avoided. I-Chaya would still be here, nosing at his palm, an ever-constant companion. Time would have taken him later, but not in the now.</p><p><em>No</em>, he reminds himself. <em>I chose Vulcan.</em></p><p>He pushes the memory of I-Chaya's fur—still warm and soft under his hands—away. He moves on. The door closes behind him.</p><p>His mother—his memory paints her with every physical detail as the holophotos of her maintain. He lives through the years spent together, the echoes of pride, sadness, and empathy through her fingers as she holds him, guides him, and wishes so much for a world better for their struggles. She reads stories to him of realms topsy-turvy, where reality is inconsequential, and Alice much like Spock cannot understand the rules--</p><p>
  <em>“--e’s a traitor, you know, your father. For marrying that Human whore--”</em>
</p><p>Spock pushes past that memory to focus on the next one.</p><p>--his mother tells him of her pride whatever his choice--</p><p>--she wishes him well on his career in Starfleet--</p><p>--even years later, the coolness of the PADDs he reads her messages on cannot belie the sentiments of her love--</p><p>Vulcan, he chooses to be Vulcan, but a Vulcan he himself designs, a Vulcan he himself decides.</p><p>The memories swim back to her face, strong in his tension as he guides her out from the katric ark. The adrenaline pumps his limbs and heightens his senses--</p><p>Amanda Grayson’s face and her outstretched hand disappear instantly to the cold veneer and temperature of the Enterprise. The phantom grip of what could almost have been refuses to slacken the despair in his throat.</p><p>His mind, chaotic and spiralling, unsettles.</p><p>He folds down the echoes of psionic screams—Vulcan, crushed into its own black hole--and isolates them into the quiet behind another door. Mother in a different door behind another door. Always doors.</p><p><em>Spock. </em>Fingers slide at his psi-points, minutely.</p><p><em>I am fine</em>, he insists. He leans his head forward with but a single understanding and slows his breath.</p><p>Pike’s now.</p><p>Spock cradles the remnants of Pike’s mind carefully. It is meaningful, vivid. Disorganized, chaotic thoughts are overwhelming at the same time as they echo over one another. Spock guards as they punch against him with each word and sentiment, compiled with a survival instinct, a desire, a struggle in the desperation for life. It is an instinctual, very human rebellion to refuse to go where he would push them—and they spill out.</p><p>Half-Vulcan, Spock’s own human half is nothing compared to a wholly human mind. There exists no purposeful categorization nor willful separation of logic and emotion. Memories flit by as quickly as the feelings associated. Emotions well up in Pike’s senses, pitted into the stiffening of his limbs, the parting of his mouth, and the struggle to speak. Whole images rather than words begin to fill Spock’s mind, as Pike's thoughts of his life, his whereabouts, his realizations, and his regrets ripple over the hold.</p><p>
  <em>“Number One...”</em>
</p><p>All this and nearer overwhelm Spock as he tries to redirect them again, behind one more door that refuses to close.</p><p>He tries to re-ground himself. Cold floor. Broken plaster and walls. Chaos behind them. His fingers, sliding to psi-points on Captain Pike’s face. In a single instant, both of them knowing the truth.</p><p>“<em>I don’t want to die</em>,” <em>Pike’s mind pleads, as Spock tries to ease him. The shrinking fortitude of his mind claws instinctively at Spock’s shields. “I don’t want to--”</em></p><p>
  <em>Spock's heartbeat is unsettled, higher than he would prefer it. The instigator of this attack is near, but Pike is disappearing, too quickly for Spock to help him. Pike is dying, too soon, too fast, too--</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Spock.</em>
</p><p>Everything washes to blankness, resets to the equilibrium where Spock is no longer alone in his own mind.  The door that holds Pike’s ghost is now closed.</p><p>
  <em>I was...overcome.</em>
</p><p><em>Your control is commendable, </em>his future self informs him. <em>Your efficiency is dropping</em>. <em>Perhaps it would be more beneficial to finish another time. </em>Spock Prime’s mind, when Spock brushes it aside, is steady and calm, an enviable state.</p><p>
  <em>Private meditation and compartmentalization can be done at any time. You have your responsibilities as I have mine. I must maximize my advantages while I can.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>While sufficient, it is a logical argument I challenge.</em>
</p><p><em>I can finish, </em>Spock persists. The echo of Pike’s mind still slides behind that door. Spock turns his attention to what must be dealt with, the door he has yet to open. <em>I will manage.</em></p><p><em>This will not be easily revisited. </em>Spock Prime’s emotions—unsolicited and unwelcomed sentimentality and sadness—sweep through the connection. <em>It was difficult to assist you earlier. The emotional resonance of your meld with Christopher Pike was overpowering to an extent I did not expect.</em></p><p>
  <em>I comprehend your reluctance. The meld contained an extremely heightened emotional state. However, Captain Kirk and I have never melded. Such difficulties will therefore be nonexistent.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I would argue your connection with him would make it more difficult. You have spoken to me prior about the breakage of your control at the moment of his death. As your future self, I would caution overestimation. I understand far too well how much James T. Kirk elicits emotional responses.</em>
</p><p><em>I accept your logic and will proceed regardless. </em>Spock must settle this, if he is to ever face Kirk again and not think so much on what almost was. An emotional irrationality is unwelcome. How close he became undone—the terrifying liberation and how out-of-character it made him—he never wishes to be like that again.</p><p>A pause. <em>As you wish.</em></p><p>Acceptance of the irreversibility and permanence of death allows for the absolution of personal responsibility. This is all necessary, and yet Spock is incapable of doing so once Jim’s face—cold and blue, his hand slipping off the glass, the lack of breath, his eyes unfocused—swims to sight.</p><p>Anger, sorrow, rage, untogetherness--</p><p>Jim.</p><p><em>Jim. </em>He has lost Jim, and the world is empty for this.</p><p>
  <em>Spock.</em>
</p><p>Jim is gone and it is Khan who has caused this. Khan who must pay.</p><p>
  <em>…Spock!</em>
</p><p>He will break bone; he will break rule. He will kill as he will punish. He will feel so much, and he will unleash this all. It is Spock’s fault. He should have suspected. He should have known the sacrifice given how Jim is. He cannot—mortality frightens him.</p><p>
  <em>Enough.</em>
</p><p>Once more, he is brought to the blankness of equilibrium, the space in between the doors where emotion exists under control of the structures of logic. Dizzy, he is speechless.</p><p><em>It is a difficult process,</em> Spock Prime’s voice, less raspy with age and stronger for its control, speaks into his mind. Despite all of Spock’s desires to stand alone, to do this alone, the support of Spock Prime’s mind is a rock. Steadiness allows him to pick himself up. <em>Do not fault yourself. Death is the completion of a journey, an inevitability, but anxiety towards it is not wholly illogical.</em></p><p><em>Vulcan culture teaches that death is logical and to be troubled over it is illogical</em>. Spock disdains his weakness, just as much as he envies, longs for what Spock Prime is now capable of. <em>I am capable of controlling myself, just as you are.</em></p><p><em>You are young, </em>Spock Prime says, and he is pulling away now. <em>You will listen to me that this is enough for you now. I expect constant meditation will help remedy it until you return in the future.</em></p><p><em>I will accept your guidance, </em>Spock acknowledges, and closes his part of the meld.</p><p>It has been years since Spock has melded with an elder. Years longer since he has known the touch of his father’s mind against his, and years even more since he has wished for the connection of his mother’s mind against his own. Spock Prime’s touch, still faint on his mind, is of a careful one—familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time—and yet Spock feels he barely knows the man he could become.</p><p>Slowly, he allows himself to feel the heat warming at his skin again. Spock breathes dry-cool air and the scent of tea into his lungs. He opens his eyes back to the apartment and everything in it. Spock Prime’s hands have settled back into his lap, folded over in polite patience. Spock straightens his back under those watchful eyes, and reaches for the tea, still warm.</p><p>“What are your plans for after?” Spock Prime asks as Spock wets his lips and tongue. He understands that it is by necessity, not by favour or inclination, that Spock asked for him. Spock supposes he cannot begrudge the curiousity. “Will you pass your time on the new colony or will you serve elsewhere?”</p><p>The lingering aftereffects of the meld muddle Spock’s thoughts for a moment. He sets the cup back down on the table as he deliberates his response. “I am remaining on Earth. Several Admirals have requested my expertise in expediating the graduation process at the Academy.”</p><p>“Understandable. However, I have heard rumours that Starfleet is expecting to focus less on exploration in the immediate foreseen future. Has this influenced your decision to remain planetside?”</p><p>“It has, yes.”</p><p>“Acknowledged,” his elder self says, pressing his fingers together. He contemplates, seemingly observing of something in Spock’s expression or perhaps in Spock’s mind that he has seen. “Please remain assured I have no intention in interfering with your life in Starfleet. Life in retirement, as we could call it, suits me well enough.”</p><p>Spock looks to the flatness of Spock Prime’s hair, then at his traditional robes. His face is neutral but pleasant, a counterpoint to Spock’s own discomfit. Here together in Spock’s apartment in San Francisco, he remains an outlier among grievous attempts at Vulcan decoration mixed with Terran architecture: functional chairs and tables, a bookshelf occupied only by a few books, and the occasional plant and vase.</p><p>Retirement, as Spock Prime calls it, seems very much like spending days wasting away on a planet doing nothing. And yet it seems he has a peace with his lot that Spock can only envy.</p><p>The last time they had comm’d, Spock had seen the way sand lingered his shoulders and sleeves. The windows had been open, no doubt allowing the breeze in. Spock Prime’s home had a quiet room, isolation amplified by the residence’s placement on a mountain. A few plants remained on the side, beside the doorway. A slow humming replicator in the corner had filled up the atmosphere of their call.</p><p>“Is your work acceptable on Amniiba?”</p><p>“I am content there, and I have already spent quite a career in space.” His elder self has moments wherein Spock becomes discomfited, if not by the show of emotion on his face, but by the understanding of something Spock has yet to fully match himself. Now is one of them. Spock Prime humours him and Spock feels at once that he is too many years too young and too experiences too little to know the breadth of it. “You do not need to worry. It is no trouble for me to assist with further expansion efforts. This is something that will not change.”</p><p>Spock Prime is at ease, reaching for the tea. Spock studies him.</p><p>“That is not my concern,” Spock says. “My path, my purpose... I know what I could be if I continued to serve in Starfleet. You sit before me as evidence that it has all been done. And yet...”</p><p>“I understand your conflict,” Spock Prime replies. "But as you see, I am an old man, and you are still young enough. My answer remains that the Enterprise, her crew, and the five-year mission in space have been a most fulfilling destiny. Let yourself take the time you need to figure out what it is you truly wish for.”</p><p>Time, yes. Spock has much of that left indeed.</p><p>--</p><p>The Enterprise’s famed five-year mission, once spoken about in anticipation, no longer is. One would presume disappointment; had there been a chance to discuss their immediate impressions of the news, Nyota would no doubt have identified the emotion, projecting her own feelings in an attempt to resonate with what she perceived as his own. She would not have been wrong. Space, and all its unknown, had held greater scientific variation and practical appeal than simple, narrow-minded aspirations and colleagues available at the Vulcan Science Academy. And yet, disappointment was incorrect. Spock did not feel disappointment as a Vulcan. He merely felt inconvenienced, in the way one feels when one door has closed out of one’s control, forcing the formation of alternate plans.</p><p>“But how are you feeling?” she insists. “On a purely objective scale. Are you eating? And I know Vulcans don’t need sleep, Spock, but tell me you’re not juggling all of that for nothing. Space lag is not half-Vulcan exempt.”</p><p>“The same could be said of yourself,” Spock tells her. Nyota smiles softly at him; at once Spock misses her company. Her ship had set out before Spock could have wished her safe travels, and it was by poor timing that there had been interference in the starship’s subspace communication capability with Terra.  “How is your posting on the Farragut?”</p><p>“I think we both know I didn’t predict the irony of being on the <em>USS</em> <em>Farragut-B</em>.” She shrugs. “If you’re asking unironically...it’s every bit as boring as I hoped it wouldn’t be. Routine. Can’t wait to wake up for the next few months to the same alarm every Beta shift only to clock out at the exact same time with the next shift.”</p><p>“You sound very unenthused.”</p><p>“Because I am. We already know the Alpha Centauri system’s safe since it’s the closest to the Sol system. Does it matter if we just keep patrolling through? It’s boring. I’m going to be bleeding static from my ears.”</p><p>Spock takes a moment to contemplate that image. From her expression, it is not a comparison she would prefer to elaborate on. “You predict this based on the current situation. Perhaps the ambiguity of the future will be more amenable to you as the time passes.”</p><p>“It’s not that entertaining. All I see in my future is routine. The most I hear is one or two trading ships or some relay from the scientific stations.”</p><p>“I would have suspected routine welcoming after everything. Even if you had remained on Earth, the Enterprise...”</p><p>“Yeah, I know. It’s going to be a while before they repair it. Scotty was complaining about that the last time we went out drinking.” Nyota leans back in her chair. “It’s not that I wouldn’t have minded being grounded until it was time to go, but I'd rather it not be my patience first.”</p><p>"Understandable.” In their former partnership, Spock had grown to understand that Nyota at times wished for validation. Listening, she’d said, more than advising, and building on topics more than eternal answering with solutions. Nyota is fond of small talk. “Perhaps you may well be challenged on the Farragut with its infuriating inclement temperature systems.”</p><p>“Challenged in patience, maybe.” Nyota groans. “I can’t wait till they fix the water system at the next space dock. And I can’t believe I’m complaining about something so inane. I’m sorry, I know you hate it.”</p><p>Spock inclines his head. “I have grown not to mind it. Doctor McCoy has informed me that those who are capable of managing a wide variety of inane topics are popular amongst their peers.”</p><p>Her lip quirks up to one side. “And being that I know you, I take that to mean Doctor McCoy said it’d be easier communicating with a computer.”</p><p>“I would quote him--”</p><p>“Please do.”</p><p>“--but it would be redundant when you have captured his likeness so well.”</p><p>Nyota offers him a look that Spock has grown to understand means exasperation. “Normally, I’d push, but you know what? It’s great to talk to you again. I don’t need to deal with the drama of other people. Do you know what’s been going on with assignments?”</p><p>Spock has grown accustomed to the fast ways in which humans switch topics. “I suppose you are referring to the Enterprise crew reassignments.”</p><p>“So do you?”</p><p>“Not in so much depth,” Spock replies truthfully. It occurs to him she might have had an ulterior motive for making this subspace comm, not just to catch up. “I have been occupied with my meditations.”</p><p>While meditations in general are not difficult for a Vulcan, a post-traumatic experience remains a shock, much like a scar. They cannot be wiped. They must be sorted and treated. Spock's memories of I-Chaya and his mother have been carefully sorted, but the Human rawness of Pike's mind still lingers, and Spock's own emotions during--no.</p><p>Refocus. Redirect.</p><p>“If we’re talking bridge crew, they're everywhere. Brackett and Hannity are on the Reliant with Sulu. Johnston’s on the Vader with 0718.” With each starship, Nyota counts off on another finger. “Chekov’s doing some interval training but they’re keeping him until the Hood is ready for takeoff. You wouldn’t believe the amount of miscommunication that’s been going up and down the chain-of-command apparently. And Scotty’s been just getting shuttled around on different stations because he keeps insulting half the people he’s put with on starships, and nobody wants to take him. But Keenser’s been in touch and he finds it annoying as hell. He, Chapel and I pretty much get to complaining about him.”</p><p>It’s quite an influx of names. “You have been in touch with even the Lieutenant?”</p><p>“Why not?” Nyota seems surprised. “We worked together. And we were going to be working together for a while. Is it not logical I’d try to keep in touch with everyone?”</p><p>“My surprise was in regard to our circumstances, not a conclusive opinion of your relations with the crew. You are after all a communications officer,” Spock acknowledges.</p><p>“I’m keeping in contact with them because I like them, so there’s that too.” Here, Nyota frowns, mulling more and more over Spock’s words. “And I’m going to take it you <em>didn’t</em> mean to assume we’d all stop working with each other.”</p><p>“Once reassigned to a different ship, the likelihood of a crew returning to serve on the same voyage, mission or even starship lessens considerably.”</p><p>She opens her mouth. She stops. “Spock,” she says, slowly, “is that why you’re on Earth?”</p><p>Under her attention, Spock reflects that perhaps it is better she is not here in person. “My reasons for remaining on Earth are practical. The Academy--”</p><p>“It bothers me that it just doesn’t sound like something you’d do.”</p><p>“Elaborate.”</p><p>“You went into Starfleet because you wanted to become a science officer. You worked your ass off just like I did to get a posting on the Enterprise. You’ve gone through so much shit in the past few years, and now after everything, you’re just going to stop and stay in the Academy for the rest of your life?”</p><p>She is projecting, infuriated on his behalf towards himself. “Your assessment is incorrect. I am temporarily assisting the Academy with--”</p><p>“You’re practically demoting yourself from active duty to a desk job, Spock.” Each word is grossly emotive, hard and indignant. “And if you’re not actively serving on a starship when the <em>Enterprise</em> comes back, there might even be someone replacing you. You need to be selfish with these things.”</p><p> Spock does not take her upset to heart. There is no need to correct misconception or misinterpret after the fact. Hypotheticals are hardly ever reliable without substantiation. “It is not a question of selfishness or selflessness. The assistance of our graduates is at a priority. It follows logically that I am better placed on Earth. The attack of Starfleet command by Khan--”</p><p>“Spock.” Nyota taps on the table, her eyes scrutinizing as she deliberates on her next words. “Listen to me. What happened to Kirk, it’s over--”</p><p>“Mr. Scott’s behavior is unbecoming of an officer,” Spock observes lightly.</p><p>She hesitates, and then scowls. Nyota has never been a woman to conceal her thoughts and feelings. For Spock, she has always been a much-appreciated companion, a partner, and a friend of great challenge.  At the same time, he watches as she contemplates whether or not she agrees with his redirection.</p><p>Eventually, she settles back and sighs. “The fact that he’s good enough to do that is probably something Kirk would find hilarious, I guess. How is he? Kirk?”</p><p>It had been not so soon after Spock Prime’s departure from Earth to the next voyage to Amniiba, where the colony had begun to establish its grounds. McCoy had comm’d him as Spock had been on his way.</p><p>“Responsive,” Spock elaborates, trying to recall the hospital visit. Spock does not tell her of how emotion had wrapped itself around his throat as he had spoken, called Jim’s name because he cannot begin to put a word to why Jim’s quiet smile affects him so. “Uneventful. In a second visit, he was able to express his disagreements with the necessity of extra treatments.”</p><p>“Sounds on brand,” she muses. “And you? How are...” She hesitates. “How are you? I know I’m in space, but if you ever just need to speak with someone...”</p><p>Spock answers her in the affirmative, though even until they end the call, Nyota seems to be convinced of something else.</p><p>--</p><p>It is truly to no surprise that Starfleet HQ—and what remains of her ranks—has decided to cut outgoing missions and recall and relocate personnel. Funerals are held en masse but quickly, perfunctorily, uniforms donned and the skies grey. Kirk awoke two weeks after the day he died. He was in time for the last funeral, but he was not at all capable of attending nor being assigned like so much of the rest. Bewildered, troubled, exasperated, it was a fact he protested, to no sympathy. Rest, McCoy declared for him, and Spock stressed this agreement. These days, there is no time at all for pleasantries or relaxation for Starfleet, but there is time enough for rest. For healing.</p><p>The first visit, as Spock had told Uhura, had been uneventful. The second, similarly so, as Kirk had been adjusting, and visiting hours were cut short upon medical recommendation.</p><p>“I died, so it’s not like it was pleasant for me either,” Kirk protests on the third visit, in the time McCoy leaves them alone, to check something with the overseeing physician about his treatments. “I’ve lost track of the amount of times Bones has been complaining for and against my rights. Think he should run for office?”</p><p>McCoy’s name is decorated by degrees; and there are many starships being sent to different planets for inspection that would have appreciated his expertise. The late Admiral Marcus had carefully hidden his tracks, but he had been trying to build an army. Parts and labour would have been outsourced at some point. Arming colonies close to trading ports or refueling stations would have followed to prepare for a war against the Klingons. McCoy, for his compromise, has no time at all to chat with and look after Kirk as much as he wills it with all that he has to do; complaint, as Spock can see it, is all he has.</p><p>“Doctor McCoy’s achievements and credentials, while impressive, would not necessarily translate into an inspiring political career.”</p><p>Kirk huffs in laughter. A spark of amusement, warmth, behind his eyes lightens the heaviness in Spock’s side. It is a sight rare on most faces these days, but from Kirk it seems all the brighter. “Shade if I ever heard it, Mr. Spock.”</p><p>"Shade is seen, not heard, Captain." It is a relief Starfleet reinstated him to his original rank. Commander had felt wrong on Spock's tongue, much like expressing to Nyota that his reasons for remaining on Terra were valid.</p><p>"Okay," Kirk laughs, "let's say your opinion of him is hilariously sassy, then."</p><p>“I am merely stating fact.”</p><p>“Or interpreting on a hypothetical scale. You’d probably be better at the job if we’re all honest.”</p><p>“At the current moment, I do not find myself predisposed to considering diplomacy as a career path.”</p><p>“True.” Kirk settles back. “There’s already another you on New Vulcan doing that." Warmth colours his voice, revealing of his favour for Spock’s future counterpart.</p><p>Spock replies appropriately. “Indeed.”</p><p>“So.” With that one word, the atmosphere shifts. Kirk stares at Spock, trying to read from him something Spock is unprepared to show, a scrutiny that seems all the more critical. “Tell me the truth. How was it?”</p><p>Spock, who has meditated constantly, is unsure of why he hesitates with just that one question.</p><p>It isn’t difficult. Spock knows what Kirk asks. He asks about the funeral, the one held privately in the space, meant for a man they both respected. And yet, abruptly, suddenly, Spock wishes to answer alternatively. Interpret it, for all its unintentional ambiguity, about what he had done. What he had realized about himself in the roaring nothingness of Kirk’s gaze, just like Pike’s. The show of weakness they both saw, shared back then. Feeling, emotion, fear at death and its upcoming nothingness.</p><p>But with Pike, Spock had been able to hold onto him, comfort him, until a brilliant mind had faded into the black. And for that moment, Spock had wished—in such a selfish, irrational human way—more than anything that humans could have possessed a Katra.</p><p> “Adequate,” he decides. Terseness to firm his answer. The slightest tension to his body as he can bear to ground himself. He has never truly prepared himself for this, he realizes, not for the eventuality of death, not for simple mortality. Humans die so young, and their lifespans are more than half of a Vulcan’s. Intellectually, he has always understood this, and been made to understand.</p><p>“I guess that’s one thing that Starfleet didn’t fuck up.” Kirk leans back weary. His gaze flits vaguely on the other side of his hospital room before it casts outside the window. “I’d have liked to pay my respects. Think they would’ve even let me?”</p><p>It’s a quiet, afterthought of a comment. Perhaps a rhetorical question as well.</p><p>Spock eyes his heartbeat monitor: a regular resting pace for a human, very normal. His pallor had pinkened after three days of the refined shot of Khan’s blood, but he had not awoken until a week later when no abnormalities could have been sensed. Kirk is not so well-adjusted as he would project himself to be.</p><p>“Captain,” he begins, wishes to say, but it changes in his mouth, much like the way his opinion has over these years. “Jim.”</p><p>Jim looks back.</p><p>“I must depart.”</p><p>“What?” Kirk straightens to sit up from the bed, wobbly. “You mean go already?”</p><p>Spock cannot lie. “I have a class at 1800 hours to prepare for.”</p><p>“A class…?” Kirk blinks at what he perceives to be non-sequitur.</p><p>“I am teaching at the Academy.”</p><p>Kirk’s brows wrinkle. He frowns. “Again?”</p><p>He has not been informed. In the past few days Spock has visited, Kirk rationed his questions carefully, phrasing them specifically or vaguely in an attempt to ascertain the most successful approach. The Enterprise, what happened to her crew, what Starfleet was deciding were among those questions. Spock’s role, much like McCoy’s, had never been touched by word or by voiced thought.</p><p>Spock had assumed Kirk did not care to know. “Starfleet has called for all available personnel to serve in multiple capacities.”</p><p>“No, I know that.” Kirk gazes at him. “But you…teaching? You’re not on a starship? I thought…?”</p><p>“I am Vulcan and require less sleep than most humans. I function in a precise, consistent manner,” Spock replies. “I am best suited for a multitude of roles. I am neither emotionally compromised nor outside of my capabilities in preparing the next year of graduates to prepare for their stations.”</p><p>They are not excuses, but under Kirk’s incredulity, they might very well be.</p><p>“I can read your face,” Kirk says. “I’m not saying it’s…bad or anything. I’m just, well, surprised.”</p><p>“Surprised?”</p><p>“Space.” Kirk gestures vaguely, eyebrows furrowing, grimacing. “You’re a scientist before anything else. Just…staying here, grounded, while everyone else is out there. Isn’t that frustrating?”</p><p>Spock understands. “In addition to my educational responsibilities, I am acting as an examiner for field training exercises. The curriculum is quickly being adapted to essential knowledge.”</p><p>“So they’ll be learning everything else on the job later,” Kirk concludes. “Yeah, sure. But that’s not my point and you know it.”</p><p>But you are here, Jim, Spock does not say. You remain grounded, for however long it will take. It was not a deciding factor in Spock’s decision, but it is a factor—illogical for all its partiality—nevertheless, for his concern.</p><p>“It is the needs of the many that precede that of my own,” he says instead, to Kirk’s disbelief.</p><p>One by one, the Enterprise crew have been separated. One by one, they leave. And Spock leaves last once the conversation, which passes on to the vague small talk about diet, students, and officers, dies out with Kirk’s wakefulness. He returns to the Academy.</p><p>--</p><p>A few days later, Spock is off planet, en route to Amniiba—the planet that is also now synonymously referred to as New Vulcan. In the past year, most of the survivors have since undergone vast therapy and mental rehabilitation. It was by necessity and speed that the planet was selected for a new home planet among other options, and by great pains and argument that Vulcans have now settled in for six months.</p><p>As an overall mandatory practice, Starfleet cadets must pass a field study for a period of time before they are to progress to their third year. In previous years, the training trips have been divided into different categories dependent on field of specialization. The usual structure is that they are cycled through different positions on a wayward space station, an isolated planet, or even a new colony depending on availabilities. With the Academy's latest regulations and guidelines restricting these trips to only a few systems away from Earth, it limits destinations for a fourth-year training.</p><p>Amniiba is close enough by warp distance. The vastness of its dunes and deserts allow for a restricted and less dangerous evaluation area whose conditions can be predicted and the scope of assignments that can be controlled. The Vulcans who inhabit the planet are open to external assistance, especially now that they have reestablished some semblance of order and life. By assisting through Starfleet, Spock can contribute and help bolster continued friendly relations at the same time.</p><p>Spock has other reasons, less logical ones. Vulcan was never home to him. The value in the planet had been the culture and history that had taught him how to best control the two warring halves of himself. His reasons are a childish attachment—filled with all sorts of wishes. He would have liked to have visited his mother one last time for all of her urging through the years. He would have enjoyed Vulcan’s moonless skies with her one last time, her tea a Terran blend and his plomeek. As these reasons are emotional, he does not seek or expect any resolution. But he thinks it should be his responsibility to see what New Vulcan is like now, and estimate such thoughts resolve in time.</p><p>The initial preparation goes well enough. He sends his finalized, approved plans to SFA administration and consults with other professors who have chosen alternate locations or teach other sections of the same course. He waters his plants, checks his appliances, and ensures he does not ‘leave the lights on’ as per Nyota’s ever repeated suggestion. He travels with light baggage, and ensures he has all his equipment.</p><p>What he is unprepared for is space again.</p><p>Three days is sufficient time to reacclimatize a grounded body to the artificial gravity and inertial dampener systems on a starship, as well as life. With them, Spock discovers he is prone to expectation. It has not been too long since the conflict with Admiral Marcus, Khan, and the USS Vengeance. And yet, in the quietude filled with the ship’s hums and whirs, his skin itches. A restless unsettledness fills him deeply.</p><p>Crewmembers walk by him in the hallways while Spock keeps turning his head for science blues, expecting to be asked questions, giving reports, and arranging consultations. He looks up instantly to shipwide calls almost instinctively before reminding himself he is a teacher, and a passenger, not a crewmember. He catches himself illogically stepping in direction to the bridge in moments of occupied thought and as an accustomed habit —the Bradbury shares similar schematic with the Enterprise—before he realizes he is traversing to unauthorized areas.</p><p>Occupying his mind with other thoughts and work he has yet to complete is insufficient. Spock practices slow-moving positions of Suus Mahna when he can in his private quarters, trying to translate this anticipatory, twisted energy into productivity. Even then Spock finds it difficult</p><p>His internal clock reports that Alpha shift is in six hours—something he had managed to put away with his time on Terra but returns with vengeance now. Spock meditates, and the feelings ease with the passage of time. Internal ease will always recalibrate external reactions, after all.</p><p><em>But it has only been a year</em>, he thinks, when he is finished. He still feels restless, as if the equation were incomplete. <em>But it has also only been a year.</em></p><p>It has been a year under Captain Kirk’s command on the Enterprise, and two years since he has completed his own field study under Captain Pike’s command, and it appears Spock cannot bring himself to forget either.</p><p>It feels as if he is only waiting for something to happen, even though there is no danger or unknown that would affect a starship en route to a destination for a trip done yearly.</p><p>This is not his ship, of course. This is not the <em>Enterprise</em>. Spock wonders if he is illogical enough and half-Human enough to wish it were so, or if this desire for something that is currently unavailable to him is a thought he will break in time.</p><p>--</p><p>(The next morning, Spock’s group boards the shuttle that will take them to Ambiiba’s surface.</p><p>“Did you know about the observation deck?” he hears. “It’s crazy that you can see the stars from there.”</p><p>“What stars?” someone else asks. “You can’t see anything at fast warp when it matters.”</p><p>“Even this low warp is weird. My stomach still feels churny. Aren’t inertial dampeners supposed to fix that?”</p><p>“It’s like feeling seasick, I guess. Some people have it worse.”</p><p>“Cadets, we are on an itinerary,” Spock reminds them, and they hurry on.</p><p>He is the last to be seated.)</p><p>--</p><p>Amniiba is difficult for non-desert species, but it is an acceptable temperature more than Vulcan was. As for the cadets, deviations in climate should only be expected in future cases where they may be called to work outside the ship or be stationed somewhere less than weather ideal.</p><p>Idly, Spock wonders what his human colleagues would think of these weather conditions; to his knowledge, Iowa in particular holds an average temperature range of 15.6 to 30.6 degrees Celsius, though occasionally reaching 37.8 degrees if so inclined; Georgia, from which Doctor McCoy hails, often exceeds 35 degrees Celsius. The sub-Saharan climate from which Nyota hails holds an average of sixty-four degrees year-round. He is at least aware that Ensign Chekov, Lieutenant-Commander Sulu, and Lieutenant-Commander Scott welcome plenty of sun—on previous shoreleaves, they have been more than enthusiastic.</p><p>He is distracted, now.</p><p>Spock refocuses and observes his current class of graduates with a mildness as they settle in for attendance and for a quick overview of the planet's dangers and creatures. This year is less diverse than the last. Most of them are human, rubbing their necks from a tri-ox compound dosage as they acclimatize themselves to the heat and weather. The remaining ones, several Andorians and two Orions, stretch with anticipation and check their equipment. It is not a difficult training trip--at most it will be two or three nights' worth of work--but Amniiba is a world of sands and deserts, destined to hide or confuse outsiders. Food, shelter, analyzation and the specific process of recording their findings will make it a more difficult emulation of an away mission than usual.</p><p>“They do say three times makes a pattern."</p><p>Spock glances away from his students and redirects his attention to the observatory station. He lowers his own PADD, where the sign-off of equipment the compilation of liability forms for Academy class records remains outstanding. It is work that ought to have been completed on the voyage to Amniiba. However, time has been short as of late, and too many complications happen on short notice.</p><p>"Elder," he says politely. "I did not expect your presence on such short notice."</p><p>Spock Prime, attired in traditional Vulcan robes, looks all the more amused for Spock's recalcitrance. "It is among my duties on this planet to ensure that Starfleet cadets return, so to speak, in one piece."</p><p>Spock suspects Spock Prime had purposefully decided to match the timing of Spock’s arrival here and has chosen to keep that to himself.</p><p>"You were volunteered?" he asks. As Spock has not assisted in recolonization efforts of his Vulcans, his knowledge of Amniiba--New Vulcan--remains scant enough to require an assistant. He had assumed a booklet, or an update on his PADD would have been sufficient.</p><p>"I will not be long. I have had great expertise working along our ethno-botanists in the cataloguing of native flora and fauna. It was logical to volunteer myself." Spock Prime settles calmly beside him, overseeing the cadets who straighten. "Greetings, Starfleet cadets. I am Selek. I will now brief you."</p><p>As per regulation, no cadet has been given any advantage in information, to better emulate the unknown situation of an unknown planet.</p><p>Amniiba itself is similar to Vulcan in its heat and its composition, an ideal place for the resettlement of the new Vulcan population. At the same time, its class M status, its unexplored size and history as a ghost planet--one in which its former population vanished one day without a trace--ensures it is acceptable as a training destination. As Spock Prime explains the intricacies of its vegetation and its native wild species, Spock checks the assignments of each of the teams with the locations--four of them--given to him. Prior to the trip, each group has been given ample time to prepare designation of their own roles and responsibilities.</p><p>Eventually, all is finished, and the field training begins.</p><p>Spock is no stranger to sand and has never been. Even years since habitation on a desert planet, his feet still find footing, and his stride remains strong. His students fumble after him as he guides them to different drop-off points, marked by glowing signal boosters he buries in the sand from base just to tip before their eyes.</p><p>No issue follows with the first two groups. On Spock's monitor, the tracking coordinates have begun to disperse; from the vantage cliff they stand on, small dots of cadet field uniforms begin to fade from clarity.</p><p>At the next drop-off point, Spock inserts another tracking device into the sands, copying the coordinates with a swift tap of his screen. This will be Gamma quadrant.</p><p>"Professor Spock?" one of the cadets asks behind him. "There's a strange reading on the scanners."</p><p>Strange indeed. The sensors are scrambled charts—</p><p>The thought is all he manages before a psionic scream, harsher, louder than he would ever expect it, erupts in his mind. Then, something pounces him.</p><p>Gravity crashes them both hard against the sands. The uneven weight of a medium-sized animal grinds into his stomach. It knocks the breath from him.</p><p>The remaining four cadets are shouting. In one ear, Spock hears the low-bellied snarls and barks. The whir of locked-on stun phasers fills the other.</p><p>A sharped horn digs against his skin. Spock slides his hand past it, holding it tightly into a fist. Its teeth, sharp and canine, aim at his neck. He elbows its jaw away, attempting to grapple with it—</p><p>Suddenly, Spock is no longer on Amniiba. There are no sands beneath him, but hard floor. His hand rubes against tile while his heel knocks against what seems to be a mantle. Spock manages a sight of his environment--interior, wooden walls made of logs--before his sight is covered. He hears the bark of the animal again. A wet, barbed tongue scrapes at his ear.</p><p>”--<em>ock</em>!” a voice cries. It takes Spock a moment to hear it before steady hands move to pull the creature from him. "--ofessor Spock!"</p><p>Spock opens his eyes. He is back on Amniiba, and the creature is nowhere to be seen.</p><p>"Professor Spock, are you alright?" A cadet offers a hand.</p><p>Spock grimaces, pushing himself up to a seated position. He can sense their emotions clearly--the weariness, the fear, and anxiety before it is tamped down by an attempted professionalism. His adrenaline is amplifying his reception; he tamps it down, shoveling disorientation back behind walls and walls. "I am...functional. Thank you, cadet."</p><p>"What <em>was</em> that?" one murmurs to another. Worry dissolves into blankness.</p><p>“It disappeared, sir,” another tells him. “One moment it was there, and then the next, it vanished.”</p><p>One mental search tells him there are no side effects, his shields built strong. It was a wild creature capable of psionic attack, perhaps, not yet registered. A quick physical inspection reveals no trace of injury.</p><p>Spock stands and is unhindered for it.</p><p>“Sir?”</p><p>“There is no need for concern.” He retrieves his PADD, and gestures to the quadrant. “You are the last group.”</p><p>Once they pass by the safety distance, he turns on his heel to inspect the environment. Waving his scanner reveals no current danger or trace, so Spock quickly logs the location, the composition of the area, and details of the incident.</p><p>Back at the observatory station, Spock Prime looks through the report and listens to his recounting of the situation with a furrow in his brow.</p><p>"It would be best for you to meditate and perhaps ask of a Healer's assistance," he says. "As your students will not return for a few days, I would be more than happy to oversee the process for you. I am in technicality 'Spock', and it would be a simple matter for me to work on your behalf if it is so required."</p><p>Spock contemplates accepting it. There would be little to do otherwise. However, Spock's responsibilities towards his students mean he has a responsibility to supervise their trip with utmost detail.</p><p>His head swims before it clears.</p><p>"Your offer is welcome and noted," he says, "but it is unnecessary."</p><p>There will be a small break after the training exercise is finished. He will take time to inspect his shields then.</p><p>--</p><p>As Spock is in no danger of dying, the training trip concludes with no further issues. A cursory inspection of his own shields and mind on the shuttle ride back reveals no impact or hindrance. After that, Spock becomes occupied enough with questions and requests from his students that he decides to schedule his reflection of Amniiba’s events to the third day.</p><p>The starship picking up other groups from their respective destinations arrives punctually at Amniiba. Once on board, Spock immediately sends a message to the students about his available office hours, to be held within the one of the vessel’s many conference rooms. Exhausted, in the previous years, most students have chosen to isolate and sleep. Others decide to work on their assignments or take the time to socialize on the three-day journey back. Regardless of their resting preferences, they will be responsible for compiling the collected data into completed reports for Spock’s approval. This is then due as part of a larger assignment for their summative evaluation.</p><p>More than enough students drop by the conference room for assistance in descrambling, extracting, and merging data from damaged PADDs. Others wish to clarify assignment parameters and ensure that their report abstracts are structured well. Spock approves of the initiative, but substantial reports at this point in time are few and far in between. He can approve the subject and he can make suggestions on the outline, but as no heavy writing has been done, he is limited in his feedback.</p><p>As a result, Spock is left with more free time than he would appreciate. Thus he finds his thoughts wandering, and he allows himself the liberty of casual walks through the Bradbury to avoid fully sedentary activity.</p><p>It is easy to pull himself from the illogical urge to visit the observation deck. Spock is not so foregone for the romanticism of stars. He is a scientist, compelled by more the unknown, and the mathematical probability of undiscovered worlds beyond their knowledge. He keeps himself occupied by finishing the outstanding coursework, focus narrowed in, and quiet habit.</p><p>And yet, he cannot help but reflect back on his conversation with Kirk in the hospital, with Nyota on commcall. Space…does he truly long for it so much? He recalls late nights spent with I-Chaya wandering the deserts for days on end—a hint of defiance against his father, one matter of thing that Spock could control. He is older now, not so prone to emotional connections and attachments, and he understands that this is all only temporary.</p><p>Still, he supposes he does enjoy this. There is a quietude to space, the effervescence in the background of his hearing of the engine’s hum when crossing certain pathways.</p><p>This night, Spock checks that he has no outstanding engagements or meetings. He inspects his inbox for any missed messages and replies to several missives and time-sensitive inquiries. He makes a request and inquires after the science division—if there may be need of any assistance, or if he may communicate with one of their junior officers to better bridge the needs between application and theory that he may use for his classes. The chief science officer is more than pleased to consult with him. Still, yet, with all this, Spock has one more night unoccupied.</p><p>It is acceptable. He can meditate as he can compartmentalize his reflections.</p><p>On the third night, with no other further obligations, Spock seals his room door and removes his shoes. He exchanges his instructor uniform for more comfortable, sleep-oriented attire. They are patterned, as Nyota had bought them as a gift for his birthday as an “Earth’s pajama equivalent” of Vulcan robes. Even now, he does not quite comprehend how images of purring cats have anything to do with Vulcan culture, but Nyota had been exceptionally emotional  during the gifting process and had denied any attempts at clarification.</p><p>He settles on the bed, cross-legged, and closes his eyes.</p><p>Spock breathes in slowly and exhales until his limbs are relaxed, and he can begin to process the events of days prior. Firstly, he checks his shields, inspecting for secondary damage or way-by tears. None. The psionic scream had not infiltrated his mind far or strong enough. Secondly, he runs through the scenario, repeating it and analyzing it. The scanner readings read both red-blooded and cool-blooded lifeforms. Spock had set it to prefer carbon-based lifeforms, but the scanners were sensitive enough to mark changing variations in elements and energy, indicative of unknowns and dangers in an environment. The fact that Spock himself had not noted the changes indicated it had occurred only after he had placed the marker--the catalyst.</p><p>There are several possibilities for the reading changes:</p><ol>
<li><strong> Burying the tracker had changed an aspect of the environment, creating such readings.</strong></li>
</ol><p>Unlikely; based on recent surveys, Vulcan scientists had concluded the majority of Amniiba’s composition to be dormant sand, stone and rock.</p><ol>
<li><strong> The tracker burial had triggered the manifestation of the creature--creating it so to speak.</strong></li>
</ol><p>Unlikely; again, Amniiba is dormant.</p><ol>
<li><strong> The tracker burial had triggered the territorial engagement of the creature, psionic in nature.</strong></li>
</ol><p>Likely and unlikely; the creature was physical, yes. The engagement might have been territorial, thus defensive, yes. If the creature is psionic in nature, and therefore capable of telepathic attack, then why did it not continue to attack in the same fashion? The brief change of environment during their encounter potentially indicates capabilities of teleportation. It would explain why the creature vanished, untraceable.</p><p>Regardless, the creature was quadruped, with long orange fur, a horn. It was of medium-size and a sizable weight. Its teeth had been of the carnivorous variety with sharper incisors at the front and molars at the back. Spock does not know any creature that fits this definition, and he has memorized encyclopedias of countless species. It must surely be a native of Amniiba, except such long fur is nonconductive to a desert species. Perhaps an invasive species, then.</p><p>Settled, Spock begins to meditate.</p><p>By the third night, the <em>USS Bradbury</em> returns to Terra, and Spock pushes the incident to the back of his mind for larger priorities.</p><p>--</p><p>Medical clearance is mandatory post re-entry in all Federation planets, and arrival on Terra is no exception. Spock, consulting the list, elects to register for an appointment at Starfleet Medical. He sits on the biobed patiently until the doctor arrives.</p><p>Doctor McCoy takes one look at him, then at his PADD. He looks back up, then back down, and then back up again.</p><p>Spock decides to take initiative as there seems to be a delay in visual processing. "Greetings."</p><p>McCoy squints his eyes, ever familiar glower on his face. "Are you <em>dying</em>?" he demands, striding closer. He waves his scanner at Spock in brisk, impatient motions. Based on Spock's understanding of medical inspection procedure, an inordinate amount of time seems to be spent pointing the scanner at Spock's side.</p><p>"My heartbeat remains at an acceptable resting rate," Spock informs him. McCoy has gestured for him to lie down on the bed for a full body scan. He does so. "I will endeavour to inform you if that should change at any moment during this visit."</p><p>“No space bug? No bites? No debilitating injury?”</p><p>“Doctor, I assure and remind you Vulcan physiology is quite durable.” While illogical, Spock confesses to a smugness in this exchange.</p><p>“You wrote down that you were attacked by a space monster, and you had to estimate the time you were down.”</p><p>“A 5.6 second time is not an estimation.”</p><p>“For you, it is. Goddamn decimal obsessed and all.” No visual scan tells McCoy of injuries. McCoy scowls as he studies the readings on the holoscreen. "You're fine." He puts his hands on his hips. "I guess that's <em>fine</em>." The stress on the last word implies anything but.</p><p>Spock inclines his head, contemplating this. "You seem discontent by the revelation I am very much alive and in optimal health."</p><p>“Yes,” McCoy says, “having you drop dead would bring me endless joy.”</p><p>Spock raises an eyebrow. “Your sarcasm is noted.”</p><p>"Oh, noticed <em>that</em>, did you?” McCoy snorts, and then scowls harder. “Listen, maybe I’m cranky because if you came down for health checkups more often overall, we wouldn’t be having a problem here.” He raps his knuckles on the PADD. “You’re missing some of your shots. I’m not even surprised anymore how much you and Jim are two peas in a pod.”</p><p>It must be yet another human idiom, as Spock cannot understand the linked relationship, asides from all three parties being carbon-based. He and the Captain are neither pea nor pod, but bipedal, capable of intelligent thought and acting on free will.</p><p>If Spock is to estimate the meaning through context, he would argue that neither he nor the Captain are so similar.</p><p>"I respect your chosen vernacular, Doctor McCoy, but you must understand my schedule is extremely...." He pauses and inclines his head. "...What are you doing with that hypospray, Doctor?"</p><p>“You’re behind,” Mccoy says. “I need to update you.”</p><p>“You are smiling,” Spock notes, unsure of where the impeding dread he feels has originated.</p><p>For the next ten minutes, McCoy displays an almost gleeful relish in ensuring Spock is up to date with his vaccination shots.</p><p>“How was space, by the way?” McCoy asks, attempting to be discreet in his satisfaction. He gives Spock a thorough whack on the back to loosen his shoulders. “Heard from Jim you’re back at the Academy and doing some classes? He didn’t say anything about you going to—” He checks the PADD. “New Vulcan. How was that old version of you doing? Had a fight yet about which one of you bastards gets to stay alive yet?”</p><p>“Conditions for the fourth-year training trip were acceptable, outside of the incident.” Spock rolls his sleeve back down and resisting the urge to check his neck for bruising. Doctor McCoy’s bedside manner is as incomprehensible as ever. He surprises himself when he decides to elaborate. “And my future self and I both understand that co-existence is possible. We would not ‘fight’. To do so, thereby injuring him, would hold no benefit to me.” Spock pauses. “I do not believe the same case would apply to you should you ever encounter your ‘old version’.”</p><p>“If some old version of me existed in this space and time, you can bet I’d chase the bastard right out of my office.” McCoy studies him. “Bet old Spock was just as annoying as you are.”</p><p>Spock considers it for a second longer than he wishes. “He was more accommodating than you have been thus far this visit.”</p><p>“Even more annoying? Goddamn, can’t even imagine that.” McCoy taps the PADD on Spock’s shoulder, a tactile touch for someone who always sees fit to bicker with him. Some friendships, he supposes, are like this. “Now get out of my office before I become a senior citizen too.”</p><p>“You are already three years my senior. By some technicality, you are in a sense, a senior citizen,” Spock opines.</p><p>McCoy throws a PADD after him, and uncharacteristically for himself, Spock quickly ducks out.</p><p>--</p><p>“You seem a bit distracted,” Nyota says on the comm, hours later. When they had been planet side during Spock’s initial tenure as professor, they had often worked peacefully together as a way of encouragement.</p><p>Spock inspects his screen, while considering he has three early reports to return with feedback. “I am modifying the lesson plan for the next quarter.” He briefly massages his neck, wondering if he should send Doctor McCoy to an invitation a seminar on proper hypospray application. It might reduce patient complaints, and in turn ensure a less sour treatment in the future—provided that is even possible.</p><p>“What? Mr. ‘Please refer to your outlines’ is considering improvisation?”</p><p>“Improvisation is made in the moment. I am adapting to the needs of my students ahead of time, in reflection to common mistakes and weaknesses I have been seeing in their assignments,” Spock replies. His eye slides to the other screen. Novak is making astute points, but the structure of the report itself is poor. He makes a note. “Such changes are only logical to obtain optimum results.”</p><p>Nyota laughs. “And who was the one to tell me that it was fine the way it was?” She hums her laughter as Spock contemplates his access to Academy library records for an additional reading. He makes it as far as a few more lines before her notable silence stands out. He glances back at her; she watches him with a self-serving smile. “Hm?”</p><p>He studies the expression, comparing it to others he has categorized on her face in the past. “You seem as though you wish to say something.”</p><p>“Not say something, but…” She laughs again and cups her chin with one palm. “You’re taking a leaf out of Kirk’s book? Adapting to the situation everywhere.”</p><p>It is not an unflattering comparison. Spock thinks about previous conversations shared with Kirk; the steady reminder that his Captain is alive and well…however unoccupied and bored. “He will be thrilled for the observation.”</p><p>“Going to tell him?”</p><p>Spock pauses. Contemplates the lines about no-win scenarios and examples he hopes to bring up in an alternate simulation practice. “No,” he says after a while, adding an additional line to the lesson plan. There are better conversation topics.</p><p>“Smart.” On her end, Nyota has returned to looking through her PADD. “His ego’s big enough already.”</p><p>They spend an hour or so more, working in companionable silence before Nyota ends the call for the night. Spock allocates two more hours to his work. Several students from introductory classes have sent in their assignments for review, and it is a work ethic Spock hopes to encourage for them.</p><p>He is reading a paragraph on the practical implications of different manipulated terrafirma formations when a psionic scream rips into his head again. Spock’s surprise is in its painlessness; it is a shout, nothing more. Much like knocking on the door, Spock’s attention pulls from his PADD and computer, and he stands from his desk to pinpoint the source. In another, he blinks and the world around him transforms.</p><p>Spock takes a moment to recalibrate himself. Though his expects his body to tense physically, his own adrenaline levels have not risen as per expectation, and his limbs do not move the way he wishes. His heartbeat remains steady, and his breathing steadier. Whatever this is, it seems to be overwriting his current senses.  He can taste something non-physical on his tongue; the smell in the air seems to be of a gas of sorts, fishy, one that might be created as a result of bacterial consumption of decay product. And despite this new environment, away from the blanket coolness of his Academy office, he can sense no immediate danger.</p><p>Unbidden, Spock focuses his attention forward to where a Human man stands at a distance. He is at maximum four large strides away.</p><p>Curious. The human waits with his hand stretched back. He smiles as he stands with his bare feet on wet sands—some form of terra firma. Waves—a source of water—cascade at the shoreline. Shadows of fish swim into the shallows—splashing of life, an ecosystem. Whispers, lovingly, of poetic words that are lost in the wind—an atmosphere. An intriguing scene of a Class-M planet, wherein Spock is the viewer, and has never met this man.</p><p>And yet, within him blooms emotions—feelings—undaunted and unprompted. They blossom like Terran flowers, spread until all that Spock knows and feels is warmth and safety. His mouth parts open and his hands stretch out, completely willing. They are wrinkled and old, he categorizes, much like those of the man before him. Shaped like his own.</p><p>And the man, he smiles, teeth wide, a laughter that Spock cannot hear caught in his throat.</p><p>A blink, and the vision is gone. He is no longer standing across that grey-haired, brown-eyed man. Spock returns to the sturdiness of the office flooring, the wood of his desk beneath his heavy palms. The air lingers still save the slightness of his breath as he slows himself to sit down, abruptly heavy in his seat. The emotions unfurl away, whispers into the edge of his mind.</p><p>He regains himself, attempts to track their point of origin immediately. The invasion was subtle, a slip in between the fraction of Spock’s attention, passing by his shields as though they never existed. He cannot permit this to happen again.</p><p>But nothing. As if it never happened, as if even now when Spock tries to recall it—eidetic memory painting the scene perfectly—it had happened to him personally.</p><p>Spock closes his eyes. He begins breathing exercises to steady his heartbeat and mind, searching. There is no damage to his shields. There is no trace of an intruder in his mind. Perhaps then, not an invasion?</p><p>For all the absurd appearance of that vision, it was specific. Peaceful and…beautiful if Spock should put a word to it. Not beauty for the appearance, but for its simplicity for the illusion.</p><p>He considers, for a moment, consulting Spock Prime. He dismisses it immediately, the rejection almost instinctual. After a pause, Spock provides one: A meld cannot be done over the comm, and this situation, while unnerving, is no cause for immediate action. It was not harmful. It was merely inconvenient.</p><p>It is true that as a scientist, one’s biases must be removed before forming a question or performing research to arrive at a hypothesis. It is also in a scientist’s arsenal to use every avenue of resource available to him. To do so would be logical.</p><p>For a moment, Spock recalls the scene in its clarity. For a moment, he considers the location, the calmness of the surroundings. For a moment, he considers the man, and the strange, almost pleasing familiarity of that smile.</p><p>Spock understands he should feel unsettled. The emotions he felt during that vision were not of his own, not truly. Anything capable of changing his controlled of his current environment, is a risk to be acknowledged. And yet, despite all else, he feels at peace in a way he has not felt in a long time. His limbs are relaxed, and he feels pleasant, as if his serotonin and dopamine levels have risen. It is a different joy than what he has ever felt, a calmingly larger one that erases worry and fastidiousness in the understanding that all is well.</p><p>It was not an attack. It did not harm him. It is simply an unknown, with an probable cause.</p><p>The only other influence on Spock’s mind in the past few weeks have been Spock Prime and that Amniiban creature. It could be perhaps a bleed through of Spock Prime’s memories or even a trigger for him to see his own future of sorts. This could explain the familiarity of his hands, and his own bodily comfort. Or perhaps that creature exists spatially somehow, a link between Spock’s present and future, that could perhaps be clarified with another meld to Spock Prime.</p><p>Regardless, he does not have enough information to truly decide. To presume a solution or an answer where there might be none, therefore wasting the time, the effort of travel, and the organization of such a trip to the colony, is illogical.</p><p>Spock gathers his points carefully, beginning a log in his PADD. He will not decide at this time what it is. Should it repeat again, he will simply be prepared for it.</p><p>He will observe.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>CHAPTER 2</p><p>A few days later, Spock has a second vision just as unprepared as the first, not so long after he has made tea and his body is languid, relaxed. It is after a busy day of classes; Wednesdays are filled from top to bottom, and Spock is being asked to extend his services to other domains. His own specialty is in programming, and therefore he is amenable to the related suggestions at hand: in particular, assisting in courses and grading extra credit assignments. As it is the case, it is especially doable when the department offers to provide him the course materials. It is simply more blocked out time throughout his schedule that keeps him busy. It keeps Spock from thinking about other decisions he could have made, or ponderations that have no place outside of hypotheticals. It keeps Spock on track, away from the darker, or the more squeamish thoughts—about Jim, about himself, about what may come if one day he is not prepared. Vague thoughts, easily washed away and distractable.</p><p>This evening, he sits, prepared to meditate on his bed, when suddenly his mind jolts with yet another psionic scream. A poke, if Spock is to be accurate, grabbing his attention. While unexpected, Spock forces himself to relax again his surroundings change. It is easy to do. The temperature at his skin shifts, and then he is kneeling at the edge of on a cliff—far from a city as the eye can see along the horizon’s pass.</p><p>No threat is visible. Similar to the previous vision, Spock remains observer rather than participant.</p><p>The air is thin. There are clouds in the sky, just nature around. A cool breeze flits across his forehead, sliding his bangs across. Grass and wildlife sprout from the crevices in between the rocks in the distance. No danger. Spock’s heartbeat is calm, at a proper resting rate.</p><p>He is at peace, he thinks. It is soothing here, where he can spy the pine in the distance, where nature remains untouched at its best. Further out, mountains with rockfaces splotched in specks of green fade bluer and bluer.</p><p>Perhaps he has kept himself too busy, unable to appreciate serenity in San Francisco, and regulating himself to certain repeated unnatural, constructed environments. It is a thought that passes by his mind briefly: A vacation in one’s own mind…certainly an entertaining distraction.</p><p>His hands in this place are chalked white, a slightly uncomfortable sensation that he ignores. No one’s hands are outstretched, but here, Spock blinks—once, twice—before he glances down.</p><p>This time, Spock realizes he is the one waiting.</p><p>“You are almost there.” The words spill, natural from his mouth, as he peers down over the edge.</p><p>Below, climbing carefully along the bolts drilled into the rock, the head of grey hair sways. The face of the man from before glances up at him. His face is red with effort and wet with sweat, before the expression grows determined, and he looks back at where his hands and feet are to go.</p><p>The nature of a mountain is nothing like the beach, not fish-like in its smells. Spock scents dust, likely from the exposed, dry surface of the rockfaces. There is a wet scent, likely from slight lichen and moss. By the time the man pulls up next to him with a grunt and effort, Spock can smell sweat and feel heat and warmth.</p><p>They are both wearing harnesses, attached to thick rope. The harnesses have small bags, are connected to metal devices. There are also several thick steel snap-links—carabiners, quickdraws, Spock’s mind supplies.</p><p>Strange. Spock has no reason to know these terms.</p><p>The human has regained his breath. With one hand, he presses down on the spring-tensioned gate of a carabiner. He attaches his to the same anchor Spock is attached to. His hands are white in the same chalk that Spock’s are.</p><p>Then, he lays down, breathing hard, on his back. His chest heaves. Indecipherable through what appears to be gasping laughter, Spock can only assume his voice booms with words of satisfaction.</p><p>Spock takes a moment to inspect him. Here, he is closer than he was before, and Spock can read the wrinkles in his face as well as the laughter lines that peek out most as he pants in exhaustion. Spock is no master at identifying the age of a carbon-based lifeform outside of a skeleton. Still, he is confident: this man is at least over fifty years. As for himself, his hands are not as old—then, perhaps narrowed focus can place this man closer to his sixties. For anything, Spock is finding joy simply looking at him, being with him.</p><p>A hand clasps lightly on his knee, casual and familiar.</p><p>Who is he, truly, this man? Spock has a great deal of human acquaintances, but few human friends to which he would willingly make such intimate allowances and concessions for, that he would consider to that depth. Is it someone he already knows, or perhaps someone he has yet to meet?</p><p>It is a sensation that is not at all unpleasant. It washes through Spock’s veins like the pull of the moon on an ocean tide, and his whole body feels all the lighter for it. He leans in despite himself to be closer.</p><p>It is an illusion: voracious, fleeting and elusive and peripheral.</p><p>Spock sways.</p><p>He feels the softness of bed beneath him. His palms catching himself on mattress, Spock realizes he has returned back to his apartment and its cool colours and books and potted plants. The lighting is dim save for the small lamp on his nightstand, and the scent from his candles have settled in nicely.</p><p>Spock takes a moment to check his shields and inspect his mind. No damage can be found, and yet the past vision remains as clear in his mind’s eye as could be. Yet where is its origin? What is its catalyst?</p><p>It is a strange phenomenon, Spock notes, but curious enough. In fact, it may be just as strange and curious as meeting his future self from an alternate reality in the twenty-fourth century, and that his natural lifespan is so confirmed to be longer than a human one.</p><p>Nevertheless, his thoughts digress.</p><p>Dutifully, Spock records details of the vision in his PADD, wondering why they were climbing a mountain.</p><p>--</p><p>(“What do you mean you don’t see the appeal in free climbing?” Kirk demands. The Captain is leaning his chin on his palm, staring at Spock as if he wishes to parse through his brain himself. But he’s smiling, a curl roguish on his upper lip. “That’s fun. It’s even more fun without the safety equipment.”</p><p>Spock withdraws his eyes from the way the sun hits his hair, his eyelashes. “If it were a matter of arrival to the top, there are alternatives that would be much more efficient.”</p><p>“It’s not about the speed,” Kirk protests. “Bones,” he calls over his shoulder, “help me out over here.”</p><p>“Keep me out of this,” McCoy says, busying with Kirk’s chart. “If it’s guaranteed death by vertical drop, no sane person would want any part of it.”</p><p>“El Capitan is one kilometre. That’s barely anything. That’s six blocks in a city.”</p><p>“And yet, a man still falls one kilometre faster he can say goodbye to his spinal fluid. Gravity doesn’t divorce like that.”</p><p>“I’ll be wearing anti-grav,” Kirk protests. “It’ll be fun. We should go, the three of us one day.” He is looking at Spock in particular.</p><p>“I will consider it,” Spock says, before he can reflect upon the idea longer. At the warmth in Kirk’s face and the disgust of McCoy’s, he finds in himself a sense of comfortable ease.</p><p>Spock can see why he could grow inclined to humour humans more in his old age: it is a most rewarding experience.)</p><p>--</p><p>For all the deliberate scheduling of Spock’s classes, his field exercise trips and preparations and follow-ups, his comm calls, and his hospital visits, the visions come and go as they wish. They are curious things. Locations in the visions never repeat. They vary from familiar to strange compositions of geography the likes Spock has never seen or studied before. At times they are even indoors, architecturally composed in different styles. They change so often Spock even wonders if there is a point to focus solely on the setting.</p><p>Instead, the true notable difference is how man expresses himself from season to season, from solo one-on-one with Spock to as a group.</p><p>Because he has at least several case studies in specific detail, it is a logical practice to make comparisons. A hypothesis could potentially be made at this point, even if Spock were uncertain as to how long the duration of them would be.</p><p>On a cold night, snowing outside, Spock sits on a sectional with pillows at his back and hot tea in a Terran mug between his hands, while the man converses with their guests. He warms himself by an archaic fire while observing the strange images of his sweater—Nyota would have deemed it ugly—and the similar gaudiness of sweaters worn by other guests—who seem just as familiar with the man as they are with Spock.</p><p>On a warm night, their group has changed to watching the sky. Human alcohol in bottles clutched in their hands, it is a quiet time filled with the occasional word that Spock cannot hear for the way it disappears into blurred murmurs. The man bumps his shoulder against Spock’s and makes amused remarks to their companions.</p><p>On a day that is not a night, they are in a different room. Gifts pile up in a corner on a table. The man lifts his glass to the people around him, making a speech of nonsense that Spock cannot hear to faces of people Spock cannot seem to focus on. Details such as age, gender, and species slide away.</p><p>Fascinating.</p><p>Each time, Spock makes more and more notes about this stranger and how he acts. He is bright, enthusiastic, and comfortable in a crowd. He is quiet, contemplative, reflective when they are alone together. Charisma pools from every motion. Comfort exudes from every expression.</p><p>Spock considers his memory and notes of each vision often and carefully, trying to find patterns and information from the environments and the man-made objects within them. It is amiss to say that the environments all take place on the same planet. They are diverse, made of different elements and lifeforms, but certainly they share traits of being spaces inhabitable by humans. Within them, the same man who reappears constantly, and Spock in-vision, who passes time with him. These are not hostile worlds to humanoid lifeforms: he is able to breathe the air without assistance, and Spock as well.</p><p>Spock’s eyes never wander far when this man is near. Each time, and each vision, brings with it fonder, warmer, more and more heartfelt sentiments. Eventually, Spock is unsure how much of them are originate from the echo of the vision and how much of them are his own.</p><p>Such subtle emotional transference leaves Spock perplexed. If these visions indeed gaze into Spock’s future, how is it that he is able to synchronize so with his future self in-vision? He postulates it could be a weak psi-connection, branching him to a trigger point that may be out of his control.</p><p>Regardless of the lack of concrete answers, when Spock considers the man objectively through his notes, two things remain clear:</p><ul>
<li>Whoever he is, he is brilliant, engaging, and sociable in nature.</li>
<li>Whoever he is, Spock cares for him.</li>
</ul><p>This not information Spock would prefer to know. As a Vulcan, Spock more than understands how bonds would connect two beings together past distances in space. How time relates is a more difficult question to answer. Why is it Spock who sees these things? Would anyone else capable of telepathy attacked by that unknown creature experience the same in kind? Are they simply remnants, possibly, just from Spock Prime during their meld?</p><p>Having grown up on Vulcan, Spock sees no practical reason to accompany a stranger in removing his shoes to walk upon sand near a body of water large enough to drown himself in. Furthermore, activities such as mountain climbing do not interest him. It would be more efficient to wear levitation boots if he were clinically interested in the view at summit. He would not feel such meaningful joy with simply a casual friend either nor would he accept a touch so tactile to his person. The man means something in a way that Spock has never felt so deeply, and the familiarity he brings with him adds to it.</p><p>There are no answers that Spock would be prepared to expend extraneous energy to pursue. At least, not answers so not immediate and implicit that he is comfortable in considering.</p><p>--</p><p>Most Starfleet officers prefer to expend their downtime energies in different ways. Doubling as a professor has been Spock’s. Academia and its responsibilities keep his mind busy and his time occupied and organized. Spock teaches classes, grades assignments, approves papers, attends and gives seminars, and leaves his office door available for consultation and appointments during his regular hours.</p><p>Back on Terra, away from the rotating shift cycle, Spock has again reacclimatized himself to a comfortable balance between routine meditation cycles, personal research, and social comms and visits. It is a routine he lived on the Enterprise during her short-term missions, full of its little intricacies and large challenges. It is a schedule he keeps, wherein the passage of time seems almost contradictorily slow and fast.</p><p>The days pass by well enough, in spite of the tense differences between Starfleet before and Starfleet after. On an academic level, not much is affected. The same responsibilities and prerequisites for graduation apply to all cadets; on the other side, modifications to curriculum and evaluation criteria have been left to the discretion of their professors—no issue to Spock. As a senior officer, however, Spock attends meetings initiated by the remainder of Starfleet’s chain-of-command—now, mostly composed of retired officers and Admirals along with presence of occasional Lieutenant-Commanders when their senior officers are unavailable. Direction, dissent and discussion are most common. The meetings are less frequent now that finalized decisions have been made by the office of the Federation President, but still, even Spock admits at times they are inefficiently tedious.</p><p>He is, of course, not alone in this thinking.</p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;Why</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;am</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;I</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;here</em>
</p><p>Spock glances down at his comm panel, where the messages from CAPTAIN KIRK, JAMES T. blink on his chat window. He looks at Kirk’s visage projected at an empty seat, next to those of other Captains currently off planet. The expression is polite, feigning interest, but his eyes dart back down minutely to his holoscreen and then back at Spock.</p><p><em>Why,</em> Kirk sends again, without looking down. The blue-tinted holopixels of his visage read of a more consistent shade of values, especially the ones under his eyes. He is sleeping more consistently these days, a fact of which Spock approves.</p><p>Spock glances left to the current speaker, still listening. He makes a note of Admiral Abbott’s secondary point about the <em>USS Bradbury</em>’s availability for transfer of precious mineral supplies to the Epsilon Indi system, and the projected conflicts.</p><p><em>Come on, I know you’re reading these</em>, Kirk sends. As he should be more than aware of the proper guidelines for secure comm channels, Spock is beginning to suspect the Captain is attempting to elicit a response, perhaps intentionally emotional, to distract Spock from the meeting at hand.</p><p>If Spock were prone to oversharing and unprofessionalism, he would admit it was a welcomed distraction.</p><p>
  <em>&gt;&gt;&gt;This meeting requires the attendance and input of senior officers. I advise you to remain focused.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;I don’t even have a working ship.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&gt;&gt;&gt;You are still Captain in rank. If you would prefer to be removed from such meetings on the basis of ill health, I will send you summary notes.</em>
</p><p>Solution suggested, Spock adds to another line of notes before he looks up. Kirk has glanced down to read Spock’s message, frowning.</p><p>&lt;&lt;&lt;<em>You can’t tell me you’re not bored too.</em></p><p>
  <em>&gt;&gt;&gt;On the contrary, Vulcans do not feel boredom. I am sufficiently occupied.</em>
</p><p>The <em>USS Hood</em>’s Captain—Admiral Hackett—reads from a dossier which suggests the use of a merchant ship, escorted by a Federation vessel. His voice is flat. Spock adds one word to his notes: <em>Contestable. </em></p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;Sufficiently occupied typing one-word notes?</em>
</p><p>Spock adds second, <em>Check.</em> Then, as an afterthought:<em> Ensign Chekov’s Captain.</em></p><p><em>False,</em> Spock sends to Kirk, before he contemplates the thread of irrationality of finding…thrill? Amusement? In their communications. <em>They are at minimum five-word notes.</em></p><p>When he looks at them again, Spock realizes he has almost unintentionally made notes in complete alliteration. It would be most embarrassing, except Spock does not tend towards a disposition to be embarrassed.</p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;Uh-huh.</em>
</p><p>Spock resolutely decides against the sudden urge to add another unnecessary note so that his per subject wordcount will be six.</p><p>In spite of the childishness, Spock finds that the comms help pass an otherwise monotonous time. Like Nyota and McCoy, and in addition to other humans, Kirk observes patterns and has his opinions on quite a deal of them. This has never been new information, but now is the first professional context that Spock can think of where he distinctly appreciates it. Spock contributes barely to the flow of their messaging, and yet it does not seem to deter Kirk from sharing his insights.</p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;Just take column A, B, and let someone pick C and D. How is this hard? I thought we were all about delegating responsibility.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&gt;&gt;&gt;The available of starships and senior officers makes it difficult for such decisions to be made so instantaneously.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;It’s also physically impossible for them to expect the Reliant to come back in five days. It’s already a three-day travel for sixteen lightyears.</em>
</p><p>Kirk’s disdain for the bureaucracy of rank is understandable, if not unfortunate.</p><p>&gt;&gt;&gt;<em>If you find it inefficient, you may suggest an alternate solution.</em></p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;Thanks for your permission. I will proceed to not do that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&gt;&gt;&gt;You are welcome.</em>
</p><p>Kirk snorts, loud enough that Hackett pauses. Attention turns on him.</p><p>Comfortable, Kirk leans back in his seat. “Apologies,” he says, straight-faced. “I sneezed. Please continue.”</p><p><em>Pulled a Spock</em>, Kirk sends him, as the proceedings continue. <em>Five-word notes just for you.</em></p><p>In Spock’s opinion, the five words are unrelated and insufficient to be used as summary notes. In addition, he cannot understand how he is being pulled.</p><p>He replies as such, and Kirk on the holoscreen tries to suppress a laugh with little success. The side of his mouth curls up with little effort, and he does not seem inclined move it otherwise.</p><p>Kirk meets eyes with him, and winks.</p><p>Spock pauses. His belly lurches, an upward thrill that spreads to his heart and makes his hands clench slightly. <em>Ah</em>, Spock thinks. He is recognizing this feeling and the up of his own mood makes his head dizzy. It is pleasurable as it is unexpected.</p><p>The moment is lost as fast as his breath. Chandra has much to say about the logistics of Earth colonies, and the newest shipment of requested supplies en route through the Tarsius system; Kirk has turned his attention away.</p><p>There are important notes to be made here, so Spock is not at a loss. Still, Spock’s eyes draw back to Kirk’s face; he cannot help but wonder why the warmth has chilled, noting the sudden drawn back corners of his lips.</p><p>--</p><p>As his second-in-command and a chief science officer aboard the bridge of the Enterprise, Spock has had the privilege of working alongside Kirk in a fast-paced environment. He has seen firsthand to Kirk’s natural flair for command, and how much his Captain presses onwards to do the things that are right, in spite of how reckless the consequences may be. It is in the ‘now’ that Kirk prefers to focus on, much like the sacrifices he is prepared to make without a second thought to the future.</p><p>Placed within an environment in which he is not in command and is not expected to make decisions on behalf of his crew, Kirk seems disinclined to adapt.</p><p>“Thought you’d never show up,” Kirk says as soon as Spock walks into his hospital room, in place of a greeting. Spock observes this behavior and mentally logs it. Even weeks after, Kirk acts as he always has. Neither the experience of dying nor of coming back to life appear to have changed him in the slightest. “I can’t pull rank, Bones decided he loves me least, I’ve been through every test you can name, and the food stinks. I hate it here.”</p><p>“You have expressed such sentiments frequently,” Spock says, taking a seat beside him and opening his bag. “What has your trauma psychologist suggested?”</p><p>“The usual.” Kirk peers in and takes his PADD as is his habit. He does not seem keen to elaborate, typing in Spock’s access code and immediately logging onto MediaComm news. Spock wonders how many times he has used it, for it to be so casually memorized. “I still hate it here.”</p><p>“Your repetition becomes redundant.”</p><p>“<em>You’re</em> redundant,” Kirk replies, to be perhaps further redundant. Spock can only presume to understand human reasoning. “Speaking of the letter R, guess what I have to do every day now?”</p><p>A large number of tests and observation made after Kirk’s revival had concluded that Khan’s blood had no doubt erased every trace of radiation to be seeped in his cells. Cells and organs once damaged on a cellular level were repaired. Exterior scars did not heal. It was a medical quandary, concluded with the understanding that further testing, physical therapy, and a longer period of observation were necessary for continued health.</p><p>Doctor McCoy had seen fit to inform Spock of all the things James Kirk was not permitted and was permitted to do. The list of the former was a great deal longer than the latter. “Rehabilitation.”</p><p>“<em>Exactly</em> rehabilitation.” A skim of the latest news fails to retain his interest. He leans back against his propped pillows and passes the PADD back. “Thanks.”</p><p>“I would remind you that according to Starfleet medical regulations, the possession of such equipment by a patient is illegal, punishable by demerit of both parties.”</p><p>Kirk raises an eyebrow. “But I don’t possess it. It’s not actually mine.”</p><p>“Ownership is one definition of possession. Having is another.”</p><p>“You’re not going to be docked points, Spock. You didn’t tell me to take it out of your bag.”</p><p>“I am regardless responsible for your possession of it. And an accomplice.”</p><p>Kirk folds his arms, a smile creeping over his lips. “For two seconds of it?”</p><p>“Forty-two seconds,” Spock clarifies. Kirk’s smile has grown into a grin. A most pleasant sight.</p><p>“Why’d you bring the bag last time, then?” Kirk asks, as Spock tilts his head at him to listen better. It is one of Spock’s learned habits; humans respond better if there is body language confirming attention, regardless if Spock’s hearing is already more acute. “If not to keep me from utter stagnation?”</p><p>“It was more efficient to carry a PADD with access to restricted channels with me, rather than leave it in hospital lockers.”</p><p>“Sure. And were you an accomplice then?”</p><p>“As I was in the middle of discussing your prognosis with the nurse—by your request—you unearthed it from my possessions.” Spock pauses, purposeful. Kirk is leaning into his direction in interest at this perceived excuse, though Spock cannot tell if the angle of hip is as deliberate as the smile at the corner of his lips. “Perhaps it is more accurate to say I was an accessory.”</p><p>Kirk laughs and settles back. “We’ll call it skirting procedure, unwillingly. I’m sure Vulcans are capable of cheating.”</p><p>“While possible, I highly doubt this. Integrity is a valued trait among my kind.”</p><p>A hand waves casually. “Yeah, you <em>really</em> got pissed off at me about the Kobayashi Maru. I still think it’s thinking-out-of-the-box, but I guess that gets your ‘kind’ all hot and heated.”</p><p>The Captain is teasing him, Spock thinks. He finds it unsurprising he is not against this; however, it is to a tense relief that Kirk does not seem to notice how Spock enjoys it. “It was unorthodox.”</p><p>“But you’re still holding a grudge against me?” Kirk has settled with his fingers interlaced at his belly, shrugging with his shoulder. He looks at Spock with half-lidded eyes.</p><p>A feeling squirms into Spock’s stomach. “I am Vulcan.”</p><p>“Still doesn’t answer the question.” Kirk gives a stretch of his arms and appears to give up on this line of questioning. “…You know, you told me about teaching at the Academy? What do you like about it so much that you’d go back to it?”</p><p>“I enjoy teaching and its responsibilities.” Spock turns on his PADD, and exits out of the news app. He opens his documentation, something Kirk disinterestedly cranes his neck to peer at, before drawing back yet again on his bed. “In addition, a strong foundation for any subject is necessary for success. However, I was surprised to learn from Lieutenant Uhura that you have had experience as a teaching assistant.”</p><p>It had been quite a surprise, an early in Spock’s posting as Kirk’s 2IC on the Enterprise. Uhura, who socialized with Gaila who knew someone who had known someone who had taken Kirk’s class, had been contemplative. Spock, at the time, had not put more thought to it than mere surprise. In preparation for Kirk’s academic trial, he had already perused through his file and his grades—which had neglected to mention the fact. As he had nowhere to apply it when he had learned the information, he had left it at that.</p><p>“You can call her by her first name in front of me. We’re not on shift.” Kirk leans in again, conspiring. From this distance, Spock can sight the length of his lashes. “Since Uhura gave me permission to hear it. She hasn’t said I could say it yet, but I’m wearing her down.”</p><p>“The fascination by which you place her given name is incomprehensible to me.”</p><p>Kirk wrinkles his nose. “It’s not fascination. It’s just…it’s a respectful non-antagonistic friend thing. If that makes sense?”</p><p>“I will think more on it,” Spock says. It does not make sense at all.</p><p>“You really don’t have to,” Kirk says, wry. He picks up Spock’s bag, left on the bedside table. While normally it would be considered a breach of privacy, Spock has nothing to hide. “Anyway, if you’re curious about my teaching assistant origin story, it’s because Gill was late for class—you probably know him? He teaches a lot of the history classes?”</p><p>“I presume you mean John Gill, who also works as a Federation Historian.” Spock himself has been impressed by the scope and treatment of history in his texts.</p><p>“Yeah. The guy who never fails anyone and always gives extensions.” Kirk has found nothing of interest except a pen. He puts Spock’s bag back and twirls the pen in his fingers. “The one we think probably murdered people in his basement.”</p><p>“I hardly would support such a theory. Starfleet makes habit of running a thorough background check on all potential educators.”</p><p>“I got in, though? Pretty sure some of my first-year profs would’ve had some bone to pick with Admin about my attitude being inappropriate as one.”</p><p>“You intrigue me. How was it that you came to become a teaching assistant? To my knowledge, you do not have an impressive academic background in 20<sup>th</sup> century Earth history.”</p><p>“You know how I got into Starfleet, right?”</p><p>“A dare, you mentioned.” It had been an offhand remark, made during their third away mission together, as they were awaiting beam up. Kirk had shared it unprompted. Spock had wondered if he had intended it to be discussed or simply heard.</p><p>“Yeah. It was a dare this time too. Finnegan—honestly, fuck that guy and I hope you flunked him out of any of your Fundamentals classes—dared me to teach better, so I did. By starting with a premise I knew would piss everybody off.” Kirk catches sight of Spock’s expression, and grins, pointing the pen at him. “Wanna know why? Ask me why.”</p><p>Spock acquiesces. “Why?”</p><p>“You know how I can start a bar fight in like three words, right?”</p><p>“I do not personally have experience of this knowledge, but I am assured by Doctor McCoy of your disposition as a ‘magnet for trouble’.”</p><p>Kirk laughs, delighted, and drops the pen back into Spock’s bag. “You gotta tell me what Bones says about me. But yeah. So it ended up being one, but as a whole debate thing. People were really getting heated. Then, Gill came in when I was roasting the shit out of Gary, and he liked me enough to recommend me. I was specializing in Advanced Tactics, so he talked to one of my teachers there.” Kirk spreads his arms wide. “And voilà. Teaching Assistant Kirk, at your service.”</p><p>It is truly an unorthodox story that neither follows Starfleet Academy regulations nor its hiring policy. Spock supposes Kirk makes it a habit to be so memorable and unique in all aspects of life.</p><p>“I was informed of your reputation of making your students ‘think or sink’.”</p><p>“Yeah? Well, yeah.” Kirk shrugs. “We’ve had centuries to figure out how the mind best takes in information. But I figure, shit, I didn’t study education, and I don’t care if you get it or not. You get it if you apply it.”</p><p>Spock’s eyebrows have raised high. He gives Kirk a considering look. “Your postulation is that cadets are unprepared for practical application of theoretical knowledge.”</p><p>“Honestly?” It doesn’t seem at all as Kirk is impressed or enlightened by this information.  He gestures vaguely in one direction. “If it’s a three versus one situation, I would have no problem at all just physically launching my body at them. No textbook will prepare you for sheer absurdity.”</p><p>Spock tries to imagine it, and finds that the image of Kirk crouching, only to throw his entire body forwards, a very strange method of attack. “From my perspective, it seems to be a most unconventional method.”</p><p>Kirk flashes teeth. “But it works.”</p><p>The sciences and command tracks rarely cross-over outside of general education, combat, and elective courses as specializing is key on a starship, but Kirk finds as much fascination in the sciences that Spock teaches as Spock remains intrigued by the tactics Kirk did.</p><p>They converse, for the better part, for an hour or so about the simpler things and about the complicated things that come with education. Kirk, for his parts, has a great deal of suggestions on classroom management—in that, as far as his concern, there is no need for an environment wholly made of a lecturer who passes his ‘fountain of knowledge’ to students. Spock has solutions for facilitating the evaluation of assignments (“Oh my god,” Kirk says, “<em>you</em> were the asshole who designed the rubric from hell?”)—though contests that there is a limitation to the educator as the ‘guide’ and a support.</p><p>In truth, it is a conversation made all the more enjoyable by mutual proactivity. Spock would not trade it willingly.</p><p>--</p><p>As they grow in frequency and so does his anticipation for these visits, Spock suspects his own ulterior motives. He does not deliberately intend to schedule them so often, but they happen more and more frequently as the semester passes. He gives no excuse and dares not consider any explanation; to keep the visits in mind as a whim—even as a whim he constantly plans—is a small indulgence he allows himself.</p><p>He visits on a Monday every week initially, on a Tuesday one following, and then tentatively the Fridays. The length never matters as they vary. They may speak for hours that intrude upon Spock or Kirk’s mealtimes, or they may merely be a temporary stop for Spock to pass meeting summary notes in person. Eventually, what becomes an instance (flexible, dependent on his academy schedule) becomes a fixture, a locked-in appointment he keeps to the best of his ability.</p><p>There are benefits to this. On the Enterprise outside of his work and personal projects, following the advice of his elder self, Spock kept a social schedule followed to the minute, if not hour of certain days. Kirk could be found on Mondays and Fridays in the recreation room or the ship gymnasium if required to sign off or be informed about missed paperwork. McCoy would visit end-of-shifts on Tuesdays for a reason or another, whether it be to complain or to protest, and Spock would return these in kind on Thursdays. Lieutenant Sulu was amenable to an occasional game of Go after shift on Saturdays, and Spock was not against Wednesday’s reservations for the Vulcan lyre to accompany Nyota’s singing. These habits have kept Spock socially fulfilled and satisfied. It follows that Spock would keep to something similar.</p><p>Here during the visits, Spock allows himself the comforts of socialization that understands his preferences of conversation, especially with people he is familiar with and has worked. For a few minutes, McCoy might join them in their talks about something seen in the MediaComm, and for other moments, Spock catches an empty room and waits for company. During the off times, he peruses the hospital PADDs or finishes his own work. Kirk’s room, by virtue of his rank as Captain, is on a higher floor, isolated from the rest. It is peaceful there, enjoyably disruptive in a functional way when the Captain or the Doctor returns. It is fascinating to observe McCoy or Kirk reach out to the thermometer without a word, or even adjusted before his visit. It is enlightening to know he is a part of this group as they are his.</p><p>To Spock’s surprise, members of the Enterprise often drop by on shore leave. It is less a surprise that they would visit the Captain, and more one due to their choice to return to Terra. Shore leaves, brief as they are, have always remained at whim of Captain and available planet ecosystems amenable to the majority comforts of the ship’s crew. The ship would be parked in a common spaceport, and shuttles to certain remaining planets would be accessible by its crew. Still, they are a welcome energy, one unpredictable by the days, and Spock contemplates getting into contact with some officers in his science division to ‘catch up’ as well.</p><p>Spock learns more from them than he would think possible, from the moods they display to their superior officer, but also to the depth of which Kirk has managed to earn the respect of his crew. Kirk is troubled at times with honest praise, but he is generous in his claims and seemingly happier with the flux of visitors as the days pass.</p><p>In honesty, Spock could spend less time traveling to the hospital. The city is cooler than most other parts of the country by virtue of its location between the ocean and Central Valley. Even brief travel in San Francisco exposes him to the elements, and when it grows moist and mild in its winters, he must bundle up far more. He knows Kirk or McCoy would not fault him.</p><p>Still, teaching in San Francisco has accustomed Spock to life on a planet with ever-changing weather that prefer the rainy and wet. In the days, the chill would grow too much, it was nothing tea, extra layers, company and meditation could not resolve. It has been many years since he’d lived on Vulcan and constricted by the limitations of a desert planet and its logical regulations, but even these days when his skin cries for the heat he felt back on Amniiba, he manages.</p><p>On a starship, perhaps it would be more entertaining. Perhaps he would be occupied differently, but the temperature would merely be cooler—tolerable, then—rather than requiring much effort to adapt for. And perhaps Spock would be bored there, his assignment posting on a starship tedious and constrictive under new Starfleet regulations as Nyota is finding it.</p><p>“Are you having fun on Earth?” Nyota asks him, the next time they comm. She always asks, as if Spock’s final answer would have changed since the last. He suspects she doubts his answer; he prefers to maintain it. “Or are you ready to give up and come jettisoning into space with me?”</p><p>“Vulcans do not ‘have fun’,” he informs her. “And as I am physically incapable of penetrating the atmosphere, I uncomfortable with the notion I would have to be thrown from an aircraft to do so.”</p><p>But Nyota can tell what he means.</p><p>Terra is where he stays, grounded instead of among the stars.</p><p>It is acceptable.</p><p>It is good enough to remain where he is needed the most, ‘fun’ and busy enough to occupy him, until it is time to decide otherwise.</p><p>Space can wait, after all. It has waited and existed long before any of Spock’s ancestors, as a beckoning set of stars in the desert night.</p><p>--</p><p>(Vulcans do not doubt decisions that have already been made, after all.)</p><p>--</p><p>On the next visit to the hospital, Kirk is missing from his hospital room and Doctor McCoy has deemed it fitting to prowl the halls instead.</p><p>“Good,” McCoy barks, once he spots Spock exiting the room. “You’re here, just like clockwork.”</p><p>The inflection leaves little for Spock to parse if it was intended to be a compliment or an observation. Knowing McCoy, it is everything else. “And you are 14.281 seconds late for rounds in this area of the floor.”</p><p>“…say, Spock. Why don’t you just become a clock at this rate?”</p><p>“Vulcans are not capable of shapeshifting. As you seem to have forgotten basic understanding of my biology, I will send you another invitation to a medical seminar.”</p><p>McCoy narrows his eyes at him. “I’m sorry, did you become a doctor in the last five seconds I checked?”</p><p>“You are forgiven,” Spock says. “I am a Vulcan, of that can be certain.” He ignores the mutterings under McCoy’s breath. This has been an acceptable amount of time to socialize per human standards before he changes the topic. “Captain Kirk is-?”</p><p>“Officially a pain in my ass and not on floors one through five, or any of the broom closets.” Before Spock can even begin to question why a Starfleet Captain would shut himself up in a broom closet, McCoy slams a second PADD into Spock’s arms. “If you see Jim, tell him he can’t get out of today’s exercises. They’re important, and so long as he has a witness, his rehabilitation team doesn’t have a problem with me.”</p><p>“I do not comprehend the logic of an individual search.” Spock takes the PADD, upon which a specific schedule has been drafted. It’s similar to the one from the last time but seems to involve a very tedious amount of repetition. “His disappearance is a security concern. Surely we must be required to alert hospital security.”</p><p>McCoy snorts, more harassed by Spock’s decision than in agreement. “Nobody kidnapped him. His last bio reading was an hour ago. He skipped out somewhere to do whatever he does. That’s his thing when there’s nothing to do.” The sureness of which McCoy speaks of this knowledge is brought by their time spent together as roommates and friends. Spock elects to trust it, rather than doubt it.</p><p>“Then I am unsure where I am to find him.”</p><p>“You and me both.” McCoy waves a harried hand over his shoulder as he departs, glowering. A pause lingers in his step. He turns back to Spock. “I’ll let you know if I get to him first, but two eyes are better than one.”</p><p>“Do you not already possess two eyes, Doctor?”</p><p>“Would it <em>kill</em> you to let me have the last word, Commander?”</p><p>Spock considers it. “I would not dare deprive you of superior intellectual stimulation.”</p><p>“Brevity’s the soul of wit.”</p><p>“Fascinating.”</p><p>McCoy rolls his eyes, but he snorts, and then smiles. The tension in his shoulders has lessened, so he waves Spock off.</p><p>After McCoy’s departure, Spock stands in the hallways, contemplating his next actions. He returns back to the room to the biobed, inspecting the time of the readings. Kirk had left behind a few PADDS on the beside table: one of hospital designation, and another one unlocked of hospital restrictions—smuggled in perhaps or hacked with an exterior device. He had been in the middle of reading a collection of Terran plays from the late 16<sup>th</sup> and early 17<sup>th</sup> century from an author called Shakespeare. Spock makes a note.</p><p>Next, Spock exits to the hallways again.</p><p>Humans profess a preference to ‘fresh’ air, though Spock has found it more accurate they prefer natural ventilation. In simpler terms, a human kept indoors for long periods of time with the same microbial community must be in want to breathe less congested air from outdoors. As he had previously memorized the blueprint of the hospital, Spock checks windows to peers out to the exterior gardens of the building. Kirk is not there on that of floor 15, nor does Spock recognize the blond of his hair or gait of his walk on the garden of floor 10. What remains must logically be the rooftop.</p><p>The hospital itself is a large enough one in specialty equipment and teams, services both a larger branch of Starfleet Medical, and is one of thirty-eight intended for the civilians of the city. Spock’s personal experience with it has been adequate, with small waiting rooms on the higher as opposed to the public ones on the lower floors. Its design was intended to withstand and challenge terrorist attacks, easily the most protected building in the city.</p><p>Spock’s identity as a Starfleet Commander allows him access to more restricted areas than most. The elevator allows him access to higher floors. At the top floor, he finds the emergency staircases. From there, he treks up to the top, to where an open door awaits him. No visible damage, but Spock spots tell-tale wires that may have overridden locking sequences.</p><p>Spock casts a glance around the rooftop itself; on the edge of the concrete, Kirk sits without fear, gazing down at the city below. An arm leans on a knee propped up by his foot, while the other dangles down—an uncomfortable seating posture.</p><p>Each step makes an audible enough sound, but Kirk does not acknowledge his presence.</p><p>“The hospital should be informed of a possible security breach,” Spock says, only once he has walked close enough, a balance between familiarly close enough and professionally far enough.</p><p>“It only opens from inside out,” Kirk says, evenly. “Engineers planned enough for that.” He inspects the view below intensely and tilts his head for a moment, before he casts his gaze to Spock, now at his side. The expression is inscrutable for the very fact it is so distinctly neutral in comparison to his habitual ones. “Figured if anyone would find me, it’d be you. Vulcans are probably good at hide-and-seek, right?”</p><p>Spock supposes Kirk is making yet another Terran reference. “It was only logical. You understand that your time in rehabilitation is necessary as an observational period of your health, and while you thrive in social groups, you pride yourself in your independence and self-sufficiency.” He pauses. “You would do well not to trouble the staff at this hospital. They do have responsibilities outside of your care.”</p><p>“Really? They usually don’t check on me that often, so I figured I had about a few hours.” Kirk shrugs, seemingly content with not moving.</p><p>Over the years, Spock has tried to understand human behavior and body language. Kirk’s is relaxed, without a care to it, and his expression remains easy. And yet, it seems as though Spock cannot shake a feeling—one that pronounces that Kirk would have preferred to be left alone, as evidenced by his deliberate trek up to a location far away from surveillance. A tension slides along his words, one that Spock isn’t quite so sure how to address.</p><p>It is better in any case to accomplish his task. “Doctor McCoy has informed me a witness is required to the validity of your exercises. It is unwise to avoid them.”</p><p>“Exercises,” Kirk rolls his eyes. He exhales in a soft huff, side of his mouth curling upwards. “Of course it’d be Bones sending you after me.”</p><p>“They are necessary for your release from this hospital, as well as your expedited recovery.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah.” He sits up slowly and swings his legs back to concrete. With a grunt, Kirk stands and moves over to the side of the rooftop door—where he has left what appears to be stolen equipment from the rehabilitation rooms—and begins to set it up. Spock observes a pillow amongst the pile. “Let’s do it here then. Weather’s too great to stay indoors. I need Vitamin D.”</p><p>Spock inspects the sky, estimating the time available until sunset. “While I agree with your assessment, the concrete of the rooftop is not an ideal space to avoid injury.”</p><p>“That’s fine.”</p><p>Kirk takes a light jog around the roof for a few minutes to warm up his muscles.</p><p>For nothing better to do, Spock returns to close the door behind him—only after ensuring it does not lock them out (“Can’t,” Kirk informs him cheerily as he runs past, “I broke it just in case. But I’ll fix it after.”).</p><p>Kirk runs a few laps more for a bit; his form, while not textbook perfect, speaks of a man used to the sprint rather than a long marathon run. It is enviable, regardless. Spock is more physiologically Vulcan, and Vulcans are not evolutionarily designed or optimized to run. Spock informs him of his finishing time as he stretches, to which Kirk considers with a grimace.</p><p>Kirk is lunging back and forth between both feet, focusing more on his legs and the roll back of his shoulders, listening with a patient ear as Spock reads out the exercises outlined on the PADD.</p><p>“Say you didn’t find me here,” Kirk says, abruptly. He shakes off the rest of his limbs. “Where else would you think I’d be? Not because I’m asking because I’m trying to cover all the places people would look or anything. Out of a genuine curiosity.”</p><p>Spock contemplates. Three other possibilities come to mind, but he finds himself hesitating. He finds his thoughts moving from deduction, but towards sensation and feeling: sand, water, isolation, peace. Kirk has pulled a balance trainer from the pile and placed it in the centre of the rooftop. “My other assumption would have been a beach.” An illogical possibility when Spock considers the distance from the hospital to the beach area, but the idea of Kirk spending his time quietly observing the waves somehow makes sense.</p><p>“The beach?” Kirk says. “God, I wish. You know, we spent so much time growing up on the farm that I don’t think I even saw a natural body of water larger than my house until I went on that shuttle. And then,” he grunts as he attempts to distribute his weight evenly on the balance trainer, “it just looked blue. I’ve searched up Baker beach a few times—but it’s not like you can swim there anyway. I think the tourists have more fun.”</p><p>“I am in agreement,” Spock says, observing Kirk’s form with a keen eye before he inspects the exercise schedule for rehabilitation. For a post-coma patient, the largest concern would be brain and nerve function, and following that, muscle atrophy. As a Command track student, Kirk’s had chosen to specialize in advanced tactics and combat training. The scheduled exercises and their process is manageable with occasional assistance from the physiotherapist; the boredom Kirk complains about is not, hence Spock’s appearance here. It is no inconvenience. “Until I had travelled to Earth, I myself had never considered the appeal of bodies of water.”</p><p>“I mean, if we’re talking water and tourism, aquariums are kind of a thing? And you don’t need to be a scientist to enjoy it. Great date spot.” Kirk breathes in through his nose and out from his mouth, his left leg shaking from where it bears his weight. He teeters slightly and tries to correct it. “From what I heard anyway. Not personally my thing.”</p><p>“Be as it may, aquariums offer stimulation and a social environment. In your case, water therapy is another option we may present to your rehabilitation team,” Spock contends. “Though it may complicate the situation as the chemicals may be perceived as an inferior danger by Khan’s white blood cells.”</p><p>“I’m not, <em>whoa</em>, going to be allergic to chlorinated water, Spock.”</p><p>“Indeed,” Spock replies, calmly. He feels himself tense in anticipation of Kirk’s response. “Your allergies, according to Doctor McCoy, follow a most infuriating lack of sense.”</p><p>Kirk snorts. He leaves the balance trainer, stamping his feet on the ground. “Of course, he would.”</p><p>“You seem aware of this complaint.”</p><p>“You don’t know the half of it. When Bones found out I was allergic to the anti-anti-allergic hypo, he was hovering over my bed for days shouting at me.” Kirk stretches out his legs in a lunge, one after another. Idly, Spock observes the inflexibility, and then checks the chart to ensure there are flexibility exercises. “Like he thinks it’s <em>my</em> fault that spacebirth fucked me up.”</p><p>“I highly doubt that claim. While unorthodox and inexplicably harsh with his hypospray applications—”</p><p>Here, Kirk turns his face to him. “Wait,” his voice hushed, “Bones got <em>you</em> with a hypo too—”</p><p>“--Doctor McCoy is a physician who has sworn a Hippocratic Oath. He would not do untoward harm to you, his friend. He was—” Spock stops himself. There are some things you do not share with others. “Yes,” he decides, changing threads. “He ‘got me’ with a hypo as well.”</p><p>The rephrasing of Kirk’s question draws a smile to the other man’s face. “Figures. You’re not exempt either.” Kirk glances at him, and then at the door. Then back at Spock. “Not like it was a surprise. You were speed walking faster than me last ship physical.”</p><p>Spock protests the slight on his respectability. “Your implication is that I willingly attempted to postpone a mandatory medical examination.”</p><p>Kirk grins, lopsided. “Didn’t you?” His eyes crinkle in joy. Spock’s hesitation has him tilt his head, lips parting. “Oh? Really?” He seems endlessly amused now. “You actually did?”</p><p>“I…am somewhat averse to medical environments and their associations,” Spock admits. “This is true.”</p><p>“Huh, go figure. Well, ditto.” Kirk returns back to the balance trainer with a vigor. “Nothing to do in these kinds of places.” His legs tremble with effort, his arms swinging up to balance himself. “Especially if you’re a patient. It’s not that great when you’re barely eight and you realize you can’t even eat half the stuff your classmates are passing out for their birthday. Or nine, and presto-chango, you snap the top half of your shoulder clean off.”</p><p>“The top half,” Spock repeats, more intrigued than alarmed. Humans, he has found, like to share stories, but none more so than James Kirk when he has an audience. Even a conversation held on a rooftop nearing midday evokes a conspiring tone.</p><p>“I tripped and fell off one of those old-time ancient trampolines,” Kirk elaborates with a chagrined laugh. “Landed on my right arm, and I couldn’t move it without it hurting crazy. So we got a scan, and lo and behold, my arm’s not even broken. It’s my shoulder.”</p><p>Spock tries to picture a young Kirk, enthusiastically jettisoning himself off the tightly wound canvas, underestimating his jump. “Surely that would not have required a lengthy hospitalization.”</p><p>“ER visit, at least. Had to learn to write with my left hand. I can still write a little with it now, but I was really good then. It came in handy a lot.” Kirk stretches his neck left and right, and then jerks up one shoulder. “I almost landed myself in the morgue when I was thirteen, though, so I guess small mercies? Almost went off a cliff joyriding a stolen car,” he elaborates, to Spock’s unasked question. “Stupidest thing I’ve ever done in my life, right after--” He cuts himself off. “Well, lots of things. But yeah, that’s me and hospitals. You have any stories?”</p><p>Kirk shares liberally, without a care, as if such things, such information is free. On Spock’s side, there is no harm in sharing what is likely public knowledge and conjecture. If Spock were to admit it, he enjoys this exchange; time spent with Kirk exposes Spock more to his Human side and to greater reflection.</p><p>“I have spent a great deal of my childhood under scientific and medical observation. My birth as a hybrid offspring of a Vulcan and a Human ensured that my health and survival was of curiosity to many different communities.”</p><p>“Oh no?” Kirk blinks. “Wait, birth?”</p><p>Spock, glancing down at the exercise sheet, says, “You are to do sit-ups now.” Kirk moves obediently, grabbing a weighted plate from the pile and placing himself on his back. It is a practiced motion that Spock had often seen in the <em>Enterprise </em>gymnasium, and so he does not bother to check for proper form.</p><p>“You said birth,” Kirk says, after a while.</p><p>“Yes.” Spock maintains a mental count of each repetition. “I was what humans would call a ‘natural delivery’.”</p><p>“Really? I’d have put you down for test tube baby.” Kirk grunts on his way up. “Sam was.”</p><p>“Who is Sam?”</p><p>“Oh.” Kirk squints, half distracted. “Uh, my brother. He was the planned one. I was the accident one.”</p><p>Kirk is uncommon of a last name that Spock can only recall a few. “Was he in securities?”</p><p>“No, sciences.” Kirk shrugs on his back, and then returns for a next sit up. “He’s off-planet now, so good riddance. Anyway, hybrid birth must’ve sucked growing up if you don’t mind me saying.”</p><p>Spock recognizes the quick topic change, though he is surprised for it. On occasion, Captain has in past held conversations and participated in quick debates about more controversial topics when he is off shift. The discussion of family, however, seems to be taboo.  “It is no offense. My survival from birth to infancy was a scientific and complex process. It was indeed taxing for a young child.”</p><p>“Annoying?”</p><p>Humans enjoy their one-word questions. Spock wonders if Kirk and McCoy know how much they share in similarity. It is said that like attracts like. “It was no trouble. It was at times inconvenient to be so wary of my health and limited in my activities, but they have made me more thoughtful about my diet and my living habits in my adult age.”</p><p>Kirk looks like he would have preferred Spock to disdain it, much like Nyota when she attempts to cajole him into a human past time known as ‘bitch time’. “Oh, come on. You had to have hated it. Don’t compromise. Let it all out. Dish.”</p><p>“I do not see how plate-ware is of significance to this conversation.”</p><p>“I bet it was the worst thing ever.”</p><p>“I assume you are attempting to coach me into a confession that is not my own.”</p><p>Kirk thinks about it. “I’m not…” He grins, shrugging. “<em>Not…</em>coaching you? You hated something about it. I can tell.”</p><p>A human might feel exasperation. Spock is curious. “You have been ‘telling’ quite a bit about me.”</p><p>Kirk grunts up another sit-up. Sweat is at his brow again, and his face holds a healthy flush. “I’m not wrong, though,” he replies. “I heard you went back up in space?”</p><p>Spock nods. “I did not inform you. How did you come to learn this?”</p><p>“You know how much Bones likes to gossip.” Spock does not know how much McCoy likes to gossip, but he nods again, regardless. “How was it up there?”</p><p>“It was merely a trip of nine days total. Our transportation was the <em>USS Bradbury</em>. A fine ship.”</p><p>Kirk wrinkles his nose. “Scotty says the <em>Bradbury</em> is no better than a toaster on warp engines. I’m inclined to agree.”</p><p>“A strange metaphor, but one I suppose is accurate enough. Ship wide temperatures run hot and cool.”</p><p>“Bet it was nice,” Kirk sighs. He leans back, palms flat on the concrete, legs extended. He closes his eyes and exhales. “I’d kill just to feel that slight pull before inertial dampeners kick in. Tell me more.” He looks at Spock now, conspiringly. “How was space air? Sometimes, I swear I can taste it in my dreams.”</p><p>“As I am aware, there is no specific taste. Are you ill?”</p><p>Kirk snorts his laughter with closed lips. For a moment, the Captain lifts his head slightly to look up. He gazes for a second past Spock—for a moment, perhaps thinking of something else—and then back at him. “So tell me about New Vulcan. I bet it’s plenty more interesting than here.”</p><p>--</p><p>Spock passes by Kirk’s room before recalling McCoy’s instructions, just as the man himself walks by after discussing what appears to be a patient’s chart with a nurse.</p><p>“Ah,” he says, “Doctor, the Captain—” He had forgotten to inform him, an oversight that Spock decides he must correct now. “He is on the rooftop.”</p><p>Contrary to Spock’s expectations, McCoy’s face changes. It is near imperceptible, but he straightens his posture and looks Spock in the eye. “How long?” McCoy asks.</p><p>“In my presence, one hour and twenty-seven minutes. On the rooftop total, my estimation is two hours, forty-two minutes.” Spock gives him the PADD. “We have completed the exercises.”</p><p>McCoy looks at the PADD as if he hadn’t even remembered its existence. He takes it back with a sigh, and nods. “Thanks, Spock. You’re a great help.”</p><p>“Might I expect that to be a genuine compliment?”</p><p>“Course it was. Did you expect me to always be a sarcastic, you pointy-eared bastard? Hey,” he says, as Spock begins to leave.</p><p>“I suspected answering would be as redundant as your question, Doctor. I am on a schedule, as you understand.”</p><p>McCoy rolls his eyes, grunting. “Trust you to be a smartass.”</p><p>“A posterior does not have a brain—”</p><p>“You don’t say? See you next Friday, Spock. I’ll bring some snacks or something.”</p><p>--</p><p>(“It’s not fun up here without you,” Nyota says. “You’d really like it. It’s boring enough you could probably spend a whole shift sleeping with your eyes open.”</p><p>“An uncomfortable situation,” he observes. But he understands more than anyone else how happy she is to be in space, for all its tedium. “Dry eyes in humans may lead to difficulties in everyday activities and vision loss. I would suggest you consult with the ship’s doctor.”</p><p>“Now I <em>really</em> miss you,” she says, laughing for no reason that Spock can understand. “I really wish you were here.”)</p><p>--</p><p>By now, Spock can estimate the likelihood of the visions’ appearance. They happen in the lapses in his home, occasionally in his office, and several after meditations.</p><p>In a simple ponderation, Spock suspects the frequency of the visions may be connected in some way to his mental state. The catalyst—the briefest glimpse—on Amniiba had occurred when he was increasingly heightened in adrenaline. Following visions have shared a pattern: they occur in moments when Spock’s focus drifts or he falls to a relaxed or occupied mental state. In other words, they spill in when he is not at full alert. His shields will be prodded momentarily, before the snap of the psionic scream resounds in his mind.</p><p>One concern, however, is that the visions have yet to fade in their clarity. In fact, the length of time Spock experiences them extend longer and longer. Outside a slight mental weariness, similar to Spock during a lengthy in-person gathering, there is no repercussion. Still, it is something to make of note. He thinks as much as he proceeds with the schedule of the day.</p><p>Early morning on the weekends, he takes a cup of tea and estimates his tasks. He meditates, carefully reorganizing the events of the day and week into longer-term memory and clearing the waste of thought and observation from consideration. He allows himself the indulgence of the lyre for a few hours, picking carefully at the strings in pleasant combination, before he rises to make dinner.</p><p>One step later, he is jolted. Like all other times, the scream itself is harmless, much like the sudden shout calling for attention. Two voices, in particular, are loudest. A boy rushes after his friend who is undeniably faster.</p><p>“Jules, <em>slow down</em>! Come <em>on</em>! You know I’m wearing new shoes!”</p><p>“Should’ve broken them in if you wanted to beat me. History favours the prepared.”</p><p>The third vision takes Spock by surprise. He is without a partner. Buildings stand all around him, indicative of some sort of city or town. On the sidewalks, people walk, and children fill the periphery of Spock’s vision. The bustling life comes with sound, and voices. Unlike the previous times, Spock is able to parse words from the noise.</p><p>“Jules! I’m serious…wait for me!”</p><p>Jules, for his part, has ducked out of the way. “What’ll you do if I don’t?”</p><p>“I’m going to kick your ass later, is what. Psyche!” He’s pushed the boy down, to the ire of the other boy.</p><p>“Cheater!” Julies howls. He scrambles on fours—knees and palms—then breaks into a lunging run past Spock. “I’m going to kill you!”</p><p>From this distance, Spock can tell they are related; hair lightly similar shades of brown, their facial features resemble each other. Then, as if they have been wiped blank, the memory of their faces washes away.</p><p>There is a playground at the centre of his attention, designed for support of vestibular senses. Spock recognizes it only for its designed purpose only because the two children are rushing to play there now. Swinging from bars and nudging and knocking each other’s shoulders, it is clear they are close.</p><p>“It’s not cheating if it’s a legitimate tactic.”</p><p>“It’s going to be my legitimate tactic to kick your ass.”</p><p>“If you can catch me.” One of them now climbs to the top of the bars.</p><p>“Yeah, I <em>would</em>, just get out your dumb foot of my way—”</p><p>“Hey, don’t push me! Mom, Jules is trying to kill me! This is homicide!”</p><p>“Is <em>not</em> homicide! Mom, Alex is trying to pull a Julius Caesar!”</p><p>“I’d have to have knives first, dumbass!”</p><p>“<em>You’re</em> the dumbass!”</p><p>A woman with dark brown hair calls to them. “Take it easy, we’re not overthrowing anyone! We’re sharing, remember?”<br/>Spock watches the tactile and disruptive nature of their play with curiosity. This idyllic suburban lifestyle is someone else’s story; in all other visions, Spock was spectator, albeit a part of the events. He notes their dynamic, hoping to understand why his in-vision self concentrates on these unknown strangers.</p><p>“It’s Alex’s fault!”</p><p>“No, it isn’t! I got up here fair and square!”</p><p>“You’re the one hogging up the entire bar. Move outta the way!”</p><p>“I was here first.”</p><p>“Because you <em>cheated</em>, asshole!”</p><p>From the side street, a brown-haired man joins their group. A third child—his hair reddish-brown, perhaps due to his age—hangs on his back, laughing.</p><p>“Heeeree wee goo!” The man flings them both towards the playground bars, laughing as well.</p><p>“Stop! There’s no room!”</p><p>“Daaad!”</p><p>Then, the father turns his beaming face around.</p><p>At first, Spock believes this is the man from his visions. The face is clear, compared to the children. As he starts noticing details, he grows convinced this is not the case. The only true difference is the mustache on his face, and his youth. This man is not sixty—his hair is patched grey along the light brown. He is at best in his late thirties, early forties.</p><p>Spock’s attention then flits to a shadow on a hillside not too far from the playground.</p><p>It is the man with whom Spock has walked the beach and climbed a mountain and shared many moments. There is a wistful expression on his face, one that does not disappear even as Spock walks to him. He gestures beside him when Spock draws nearer.</p><p>Spock sits. The grass is cool from the shade under his fingers, and the following breeze blows through the curls in the man’s hair. Over the weeks and months, he has seen these visions and has catalogued and observed every motion, every expression, and every trait. An eyebrow folding down while the other one curls is an expression that beckons Spock to share in conspiratorial fashion. Crow’s feet crinkling at the corner of eyes squeezes Spock’s stomach until his head is as dizzy as his own happiness. But today and now, this man expresses only vulnerability.</p><p>Lonely he sits, far away from who Spock can only presume is his family. And lonely he has waited, until Spock has sat beside him again for company.</p><p>Spock has wondered about this man’s life as well as his story. He has seen him in situations large and small, among large groups as well as small ones. He has seen this man through every day mundane events in places homely and complex, as he has spent time with him in the diverse outdoors. Together they have walked beaches, climbed mountains, hiked trails, star trekked the constellations and planets across galaxy maps, and wandered through forests big and small.</p><p>Loneliness is not an emotion; it is an emotional response to any perceived isolation. It is Human.</p><p>Looking at his profile, the man does not seem content to speak at first. Spock spends a few moments categorizing the wrinkles of his face.</p><p>The man—and Spock does not understand why he does not put a name or assign one—seems wearier than Spock has ever seen him. The years seem to catch up to him here more than in any other vision, his lips pressed together. He swallows as he looks at the family. He leans back, and says to Spock, “You must think I’m too nostalgic for a human. That this is all too good to be true. It feels that way, sometimes.”</p><p>“They are happy,” Spock observes. He knows the man is listening because he turns his head slightly towards him, even if his eyes are elsewhere.</p><p>“They are, aren’t they? Yes…I suppose you’re right.” The man does not elaborate more. Spock instead pays attention to his expression, closer than before.</p><p>Sadness, in his wet eyes, that squish up his lower lids and emphasize the creases in his face. A smile, bittersweet, that doesn’t seem sure if it wishes to lift or lower. Unbidden, or perhaps compelled, Spock extends two fingers out.</p><p>“Spock,” the man says, as Spock is processing the magnitude of his own action. “<em>T’hy’la.</em>” Surely not. It is unexpected enough that Spock’s mind has frozen. “I’m grateful that you’re here with me—”</p><p>A hand closes over his fingers, then twists to press against his hand. The suddenness, and the impropriety and overstimulation of it sizzles his nerves.</p><p>Startled, Spock staggers back—back in his apartment now. Shaken, his hand clenches over the side of his counter. It trembles, nerves shivering, as if he had truly been touched, kissed. Love, he recalls. Love and gladness had so pressed into the skin of his fingers, palm almost pressed against the palm of his own. Not just in touch, but in mind—</p><p>Spock’s heartbeat races, unnerved, as he recalls the sensation. His head throbs.</p><p>Eventually, his heartbeat slows to its normal rate and his headache fades enough that Spock can recall the scenario with calm, cool clarity. He straightens and immediately goes to his PADD.</p><p><em>T’hy’la</em>, the man had said.</p><p>The touch of their hands had been near instinctive, as if the need were only too natural.</p><p>It is not only romantic, Spock thinks. It equal to what he has felt and feels for Nyota, and yet it is not the same thing. It is a feeling of Right that cannot be anything else. It is a love that translates from a connection of deep importance, a sentiment buried deep into his chest that frightens him for its sureness. For this man, there is no logical explanation that Spock would do such things—other than this person is someone Spock willingly makes allowances and concessions for.</p><p>He <em>loves</em> him, Spock thinks. False—the Spock in that vision loves him. That Spock loves this man, whoever he is, as a friend, a brother, and a lover.</p><p>If all universes hold a constant, Spock thinks, then could it be…?</p><p>And yet, Spock cannot delude himself. The man in his visions is not his; perhaps he might not ever be. Spock can only think of Kirk on that biobed when he thanked Spock for saving his life. Even a month later, Spock cannot forget the warmth in Jim’s blue eyes, the brilliance of his soft smile as he thanked him. He cannot forget the way his own voice broke, cannot forget the difference between the sight of Jim awake, alive, breathing, and Jim dying. And yet, for Spock to want more is an impossibility.</p><p>He must be content to have what he does, because he could not accept a world bereft of James Kirk. It would be a universe all the poorer for it, a universe lacking. And if the visions show Spock’s futures, or even one of them, they do not include Jim. He cannot accept these as his future.</p><p>And yet, what if it <em>were</em> Jim in the visions with him? Would his answer change then?</p><p>…no, he could not bear it either. The visions are not Spock’s truth, nor are they his life. Spock Prime and Nero’s interference with this timeline have caused grave butterfly effects. Spock’s planet, his people, his parents were meant to last well past 2258.42. Khan and his crew were not to be discovered until well into the Enterprise’s five-year mission. And Spock Prime’s Kirk no doubt lived well past the five-year mission. For this reality’s Kirk to have died, only to come back—was that mere miracle? Or was it by the inner workings of a universe that no science can claim to fully understand?</p><p>It is Kirk who does not believe in no-win scenarios. Yet, his decision to jump headfirst to realign the warpcore saved the Enterprise’s crew. Regardless of the USS Vengeance’s firepower, and regardless of the likes of Admiral Marcus and Khan, he found a way to win that no simulation Spock could have designed would have predicted. Is then luck that repays him, or the faith of the universe?</p><p>Should Spock aspire to change his own future based on knowledge of another future, just to achieve a guarantee? It is illogical, just as illogical as staying on Terra so that he would only serve on a starship that is the <em>Enterprise.</em> The seesaw butterfly effect of these sorts of decisions is the very thing that Spock Prime has been attempting to reconcile for him and for this reality.</p><p>Spock decides to halt considerations. It is a future he should best ignore and yet his curiosity, his lack of control over them, compels him to continue. At the moment, perhaps trying to identify the environments themselves will yield greater, more concrete answers about its trigger.</p><p>Perhaps to stop it. Perhaps to simply understand and know. Perhaps to be realistic.</p><p>He settles into his seat at his comm station. Federation database reveals little to confirm Spock’s suspicions or make suggestions. Geological data, especially in concerns to planets, is a vast field, and even narrowing in the search makes it difficult. Many Class-M planets exist with oxygen. Many colonies have been established over the years as well. Without true scanned readings of the in-vision worlds, Spock cannot guarantee accurate results.</p><p>Data compiled of Earth is primarily reserved for more scientific inquiries; as a professor of Starfleet Academy, Spock has access to several subscription databases hosting papers, reports, and allowing access to private information servers for the purposes of research. In truth, the further Spock tries to narrow his focus, the more difficult it seems to be.</p><p>It is to Spock’s advantage that his next trip to Amniiba is not too far away. It would be best to revisit the question of the creature who attacked him and its origins. Perhaps some answers would be found there.</p><p>And then…what he is to do with this information or his intentions upon receiving them, Spock is unsure.</p><p>Knowledge is the best defense against the unknown, but there is no danger here, only questions.</p><p>--</p><p>(Spock had been young when he had learned about <em>T’hy’la</em>. It had seemed like a most illogical concept to him, the conflation of several terms to create a person who meant more than anyone else in a lifetime. It had simply been a term in his reading, vocabulary like all else he was meant to study and learn, meant to recognize the swirls and groupings by sight alone to make it easier.</p><p>But there is a difference between the old and the young. The young do not think so far ahead, and the older can only think about what comes next.)</p><p>--</p><p>(“I think they’re still going to do the five-year mission,” Kirk says. “They’ve already sunk in so much money to the project, it’d be dumb as hell not to go.” He is itching, as he always is, to move. Spock gazes as Jim taps the table with the tip of a finger as he waits for the PADD in his hands to load to another page of the MediaComm.</p><p>“Nevertheless,” Spock says, watching him, “there is a large argument for the possibility that rather than the blueprints of the <em>Enterprise</em>, Starfleet may decide to take advantage of the <em>Vengeance’s</em> superior technology and firepower.”</p><p>“But that’s possibility,” Kirk says, with the same tone he would use to declare a command on the bridge. “Starfleet may be military, but it’s still Federation. Let’s pretend for a second we believe in its values, because I can’t believe I’m the one who’s the optimist here, Spock.”</p><p>“I would prefer to view what you would presume my pessimism as realism.”</p><p>“Hmm,” Kirk hums, thoughtful. The sound is so unexpected; Spock’s side feels ticklish for it, for no reason that he can understand. “Well, do you want to argue for it? Nothing better to do, anyway.”)</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>CHAPTER 3</p><p>This journey to Amniiba focuses less on the training aspect of it, and more of practical education. Cadets will work under the guidance of scientists currently assisting with the study and the development of the planet.</p><p>Again, Spock Prime is present. He is surrounded by younger Vulcan children. These children, as Spock understands, were off planet during Vulcan’s destruction, or were among the first to be evacuated. They sit in a circle before him, listening to his words with respectful ears. They interrupt at other times to input their own thoughts. Certainly, it is different from Spock’s own education as a child, but he encourages the development of attaining knowledge in all forms.</p><p>The class cedes their enthusiasm as they notice the arrival of Spock and his own students. Spock’s class in kind is just as neutral, though some go on to wave—an attempt to bond via friendly gestures.</p><p>Spock Prime seems as surprised as Spock is to see him, but surprise falls into amusement yet again. He is always amused, something that Spock does not understand. He dismisses the students to the next part of their itinerary with a few words, and he stands up to greet Spock.</p><p>Around them, walking in careful steps, the children find their assigned cadets. Some are in groups of two, but otherwise, the count is one-to-one. One of the assistants, now taking command of the combined classes, has already begun to assign workstations, responsibilities, and information to respective PADDS.</p><p>“I was unaware you were involved with these efforts as well,” Spock says. He looks at Spock Prime and wonders if he, in his own time, encountered memories of different timelines. It is useless to wonder about possibilities he cannot confirm, and yet Spock cannot stop himself. He imagines himself at Spock Prime’s age and envies the knowledge of all that he cannot have and is not now. He wonders if Spock Prime knew about having a <em>T’hy’la</em> when he had told Spock about his best destiny. Likely so.</p><p>Spock Prime inclines his head, folding his hands comfortably behind his back. “I have been assisting with conservation efforts of New Vulcan, as well as slow integration of native Vulcan species in controlled conditions. Teaching our children only crosses over. As Starfleet already uses such an educational program for their cadets, it is beneficial to allow ours to shadow.”</p><p>“Do you believe my students would truly benefit from this collaboration?” Spock asks. He received a draft of the proposal before his departure on Earth; Spock’s superiors approved of it. In these time-limited situations, Spock must question if it is truly an efficient use of his Academy cadets’ time.  “I would expect this would impede their efforts.”</p><p>“We are always in need to teach the next generation,” Spock Prime answers. “In addition, I have been informed by many humans that it is most beneficial to learn by teaching. It ensures those in the educational role must be knowledgeable of their subject in order to pass on knowledge.”</p><p>“You made this suggestion,” Spock confirms.</p><p>Spock Prime glances at him, then at the children, who are quieter and more polite than they had been before the arrival of their guests. “I did,” he says. “Our esteemed teachers and elders of the Vulcan Science Academy are few in number. What prestige lies left cannot compare to the knowledge our children would receive in understanding that though we have lost much, we may rebuild.”</p><p>“It is unfortunate. We lose much of the past to rebuild a future that remains unknown.”</p><p>“I am the old man between us,” Spock Prime says. “Why is it that you seem much more embittered? Come,” he adds, in short brightness. “I will show you what we have been able to discover of this planet. It is truly fascinating.”</p><p>Vulcan memory is precise; Spock’s in particular is as well, though more out of years of struggles and accommodations and learning strategies than mere rote learning could grant him without thorough comprehension. As a child, Spock had been fascinated by the stories of Alice in Wonderland. The concept of worlds too new and too strange to understand from the first encounter had stayed with him.</p><p>The Spock Prime before him seems just as comfortable as he had in Spock’s apartment on Earth, not at all troubled by his responsibilities and the vastness of routine. Everything that he has experienced and everything that he sees now is simply doable. Those that pass by appear to respect him with quiet greetings, and a few Vulcan children he was surrounded by turn their faces as he passes by, their eyes bright.</p><p>At an unoccupied workstation, Spock Prime brings up data in terms of geological configuration, mineral deposits, fauna and flora, and scout reports of the region. Spock watches and listens carefully.</p><p>Spock Prime is an elegant teacher. His methods are not too dissimilar from Spock’s own, but they are more thoughtful. He provides an outline of the information, a pre-summary of the information, and highlights key ideas as he proceeds. The information is arranged and timed according to Spock’s own speed of retention, and even more so, accommodated to his needs.</p><p>“Is it in your belief that this planet is sustainable for long-term living and the proliferation of our people?”</p><p>“It is stable enough. As a species, we do not require much. Dissent has been suggested in terms of how it is we are to recreate and rebuild our cultural monuments and landmarks. Mount Seleya and Gol, as you know, no longer exists. It follows that Kohlinar and the practice of its rituals have been severely limited. Though I suppose at the moment this is not a priority.”</p><p>“Is there call for another reform?” It has not been long since the teachings of Surak have been realized for the purpose of emotional control, rather than emotional eradication.</p><p>“There is call to reconsider many things considering our current status as an endangered species,” Spock Prime answers. “Have you spoken with our father?”</p><p>“I have sent him several messages, assuring him of my health and continued efforts in Starfleet.”</p><p>“How long ago?”</p><p>Spock understands the reminder. “Long enough. I will send him another message tonight, though I believe he is not emotionally inclined to inquire about me.”</p><p>The assurance seems to comfort Spock Prime in some way. He nods along, approving, though the expression on his face is a great deal cooler than Spock would expect it. “Indeed. Still, it follows logically that no matter the age, a parent’s identity being part of their child remains sound. I am…glad, if you would permit me these words, that this is not all lost to you.”</p><p>There are questions even Spock would not ask. He inclines his head wordless, and Spock Prime takes the time to show him in person the city they have established so far. It is bleak to realize their population requires only that, even though Spock grew up in one town, but the tightness in Spock’s throat lessens with each home they pass by, and each Vulcan that appears to have a destination elsewhere.</p><p>They are living, he thinks. It is a large departure from a year ago.</p><p>“I submitted an inquiry about a potentially psi-capable creature in Gamma quadrant during my last visit,” Spock says, suddenly, before Spock Prime must depart. He must ask. “Were you able to find additional details about it?”</p><p>Spock Prime unfortunately does not know, but he guides Spock to someone who might inform him. It is a small facility. Its repurposing and restructuring what appears to have been a barn from the looks of the weathered wooden materials and the reinforced beams.</p><p>At the centre table, Sris looks down at their PADD and brings up the data. They incline their head as they parse through it, and then project it onto a holoscreen. “We initially had no such creature recorded. Upon receiving a report, we made inquiries and explored the sector thoroughly. However, no wildlife make habitat in Gamma quadrant, not adjacent quadrants. As such, we were unable to obtain more data at this time.”</p><p>In other words, there might continue to be no records, asides from Spock’s chance encounter.</p><p>“Is there a reason you search?” Spock Prime asks, after Sris excuses themself.</p><p>“I have personal reasons,” Spock says. He wills himself not to think of what comes to mind right now—not to linger on that sad smile of an old Terran human man, taste again in his memory of a love, a connection so meaningful. It is an addiction, he thinks, of a life that is not yet his or might not be his. Illogical, in its present of carefully experienced emotion without the relapse of control. He would not stop them for their harmlessness, but perhaps he would try to understand them.</p><p>It is…an illogical desire, Spock admits. And yet, one he would keep, shamefully indulgent and selfishly. The more he experiences them, the less the darker thoughts take hold or remind him of their presence. In some sense, they are a talisman. In some other, they are distractions, welcome ones.</p><p>To his relief, Spock Prime does not ask further.</p><p>--</p><p>“Either way, you need to get back to Terra sooner,” Nyota says. On the commscreen, she’s smiling in a way that seems almost knowingly exasperated. He reads it in the slight furrow of his brows, softened by the creases at the side of her eyes in her smile. Conflicted, yet not at all unhappy. “Kirk keeps nagging me, and I’m starting to wonder if I actually should let him say my first name. This is not how this was supposed to go.”</p><p>“I was under the assumption you respected the Captain and considered him a friend.”</p><p>“It is, and then some.” She hums along as Spock plays more of the lyre. He had decided on its necessity for the trip to Amniiba and back, a most rewarding choice given that Spock has long since completed work and now may occupy himself in a hobby. “But I think you deal better with how needy he is.”</p><p>The use of needy and Kirk in the same sentence is curious. Spock is curious at the same time as he feels troubled; there are parts to the Captain that of course that Spock would never be privy to. Most individuals do not express the same personality or aspects of their personality to the same people. Different environments and dynamics require different methods of communication. At the same time…</p><p>“I do not understand how the Captain would be ‘needy’,” Spock decides, drawing out his words so that Nyota would not notice his pause—as brief as it was. “He is highly independent.”</p><p>Nyota rolls her eyes. “To you, maybe. You know he whines.”</p><p>Spock concedes to it. There have been instances during short-term Enterprise missions wherein the Captain tries to bargain on division of paperwork. “Correct. Though the Captain would perhaps argue otherwise.” He wonders about the topics they might have discussed, and whether or not Kirk would have brought up space with her. It makes no difference if he had or he hasn’t, but the curiosity still strikes him.</p><p>Nyota sighs, clearly fed up. “Enough about Kirk. Let’s talk about me. I’ve discovered something.”</p><p>Spock, in the middle of some chords, inclines his head. “I am available to your insights.”</p><p>“I’m starting to think you had a point in staying on Earth.” At Spock’s raised eyebrow, she elaborates. “There’s nothing to do up here,” she says, gesturing wildly with her hand. “Day in, day out, I’m sitting at the communications board for my shift. Subspace communication logs never change.” She leans her face into her palm. “I almost wish they did. If I stayed on Earth, I could’ve at least tried out some simulations to vary it all up. Farragut doesn’t even have a holodeck.”</p><p>Spock sets the lyre down. “It is unlike you to express regret.”</p><p>Nyota gnaws on her lower lip. Hesitant. “I mean, yeah. Don’t we all? I just keep thinking about what if…this is it?”</p><p>“You have doubts.” Spock attempts to parse through the ambiguity of her words. Nyota scarcely backtracks in her declarations; she has always first and foremost been a person of ambition for her future and her linguistic talents. “You see no movement in your career. However, I must remind you that you were originally assigned to the Enterprise. You are talented, and whatever stagnation you perceive is only temporary.”</p><p>“I know I’m talented. We all were, on the Enterprise.” Nyota brushes hair behind her ear. “But that’s what bothers me. Everyone who was the best made it…but where are we now? We’re everywhere else than where we’re supposed to be. We’re not exploring space, and <em>I’m</em> doing whatever the hell this is, and I don’t…” She trails off. “I don’t know how to word this.”</p><p>“You are frustrated with your lack of options. You feel helplessness and dissatisfied.”</p><p>“Is that what you tell yourself?” Nyota sighs, wincing. “Sorry, that was out of place. I was taking it out on you. You’re probably fine down there.” There’s a bite to her last sentence, a sharpening of the tone. Nyota pinches the skin between her eyes. “Maybe I should’ve waited, just like you. I just hopped on the first starship out.”</p><p>Outside their first comm after her departure from Terra, they have never discussed the decision that Spock has made in depth. Nyota has always felt it her obligation to remind him of other choices. Spock has never felt at liberty to say otherwise when her belief was stubborn. “You do yourself a disservice, Nyota. You took great care in evaluating your options. You chose the path most beneficial to your growth as a Communications officer. You did not ‘just hop on the first starship out’.”</p><p>She frowns at him, and then lowers her eyes and her voice. She is unhappy with his words, Spock surmises, because she does not seek reassurances of her past decisions.</p><p>“What am I going to do, Spock?” she demands. “I have less than forty years until I’m past my prime. And I know age isn’t a factor. But tell me, by the time I’m sixty, will I get anything meaningful done?” She interrupts him before he can formulate thought. “And don’t tell me something like, ‘it’s a given’. Of course, I’ll do something incredible history will remember. That’s always been a given.”</p><p>“I have never doubted the scope of your ambitions nor your abilities.” Spock considers her appearance on the holoscreen. While it is clear in detail enough that he can see the bags under her eyes and the way her expression changes, it is no replacement for the person it shows. He believes it would be easier to share comfort had this conversation happened in person. “And I do not doubt you will refuse to leave the world without having changed a part of it that aligns with your values.”</p><p>She laughs. “You make it sound like I’m going to take over the world.”</p><p>“If having such a large impact on history is not an intention that appeals to you truly, then what might you mean?”</p><p>Nyota’s smile grows bitter. “What I mean is,” she continues, and she is anxious now, vulnerable in a way that she often does not show to others. “Will I do anything that means something the most to me? That drives me to look forward to it? Or will it be like this most of the time, wasting away, doing nothing?”</p><p>There are questions that Spock cannot answer for her, just as there are questions that Nyota will need to spend a lifetime to ask. He wishes he could provide them—because he thinks he understands what the Enterprise meant and represented for her as it did him—but the moment passes too quickly for the words to come out. Nyota straightens in her seat and clears her throat, signaling the change in mood.</p><p>“Let’s complain about something else instead. I keep getting errors in the frequencies column that nobody else can double check for me,” she says. “It’s annoying.”</p><p>“It is unlike you. Your diligence is commendable.”</p><p>“Think it’s a conspiracy?” Nyota asks. She idly runs her fingers through the ends of her ponytail. “Me with my exceptional aural sensitivity and all the jealous ladder-climbers who want my job?”</p><p>“Ensign Chekov would refer to it as ‘workplace drama’,” Spock allows.</p><p>Nyota laughs. “Because workplace drama was invented in Russia?”</p><p>It was not, but she is happier to joke about it, and Spock only wishes that and more for her.</p><p>--</p><p>On his next check-in post-arrival, Spock has an unfortunate incident of all unfortunate professors. There is, within the Academy, a belief that out of every few success groups for the fourth-year field training, there will always be one or two that find a way to ignore basic medical training.</p><p>“How are there always one or two that find a way to ignore basic medical training?” McCoy demands loudly. “You’re all cursed!”</p><p>“Ow! What kind of doctor <em>are </em>you?”</p><p>"I'm here to do my job, not provide cheap entertainment for a bunch of barely legal yahoos who’ll get paid to slack off when I’m six feet underground." McCoy slathers his glove with cold gel and returns behind the curtain. He slaps it on what sounds to be the belly on the groaning cadet. “Why do you think sunscreen was invented? To help you tan? Do you think heat warnings are just a suggestion? Who the hell decided it was a great idea for you to cut off your own sunburn? What kind of primitive, backwards thinking, lower-brain birthed, dark age kind of—”</p><p>“It was for the pain…” They shift. “Can’t you just dermel regen the skin?”</p><p>“Dermel regen skin you got <em>infected</em>? You’re out of your mind. You want to seal all that bacteria inside? Good God, do you know fast sepsis will kill you? You think you’ll walk on water next?”</p><p>Spock feels mild shame that under his care, he had neglected to realize the severity of a cadet’s physical condition. “Doctor…the ship’s doctor had prescribed a—”</p><p>“I’d say it’s a miracle considering this one went and cut themself open. Were you drunk? Tell me you were drunk.”</p><p>“Wait, wait, wait,” says the cadet. “I could actually die? You’re joking, right?”</p><p>“Funny,” McCoy glowers. “I don’t remember spending eight years and a residency to get a degree in comedy. Maybe I should start. How many days are in a week?”</p><p>“My…Uh. Seven?”</p><p>“How many weeks are in a month?”</p><p>“Four or five.”</p><p>“And how many litres of water does the human body need to consume a day?”</p><p>“Eight?”</p><p>McCoy grunts. “Two, kid.” Removing his gloves, McCoy returns from behind the curtain and sits at the table. He scribbles down something on the PADD, just in time for the cadet to have replaced their shirt and drawn the curtain. “Now I’ve written out your prescription. There’s two: one’s an oral medication, so take it with water. The other one’s the gel I put on that’ll help keep it clean. Replace it every time you have to wash it off. Keep it up—<em>until you finish the antibiotics—</em>for a month and you’ll be fine.”</p><p>“I thought we had technology for this,” the cadet says, dejected. Still, they nod. “Thanks, Doc. Thanks, Professor.”</p><p>“Finish the antibiotics,” McCoy reminds them.</p><p>“I will allow a week-long extension for your report,” Spock says, as they depart.</p><p>“An extension?” McCoy demands, now that it’s just the two of them. He’s folded his arms. “You’re still thinking about coursework when the kid’s cut the size of a crater off their belly? Have some heart.”</p><p>Spock is still at confused liberty to hypothesize how a cadet would have achieved a sunburned belly wearing their uniformed training shirt. “If they wish to graduate from the Academy, they will need to pass this course. With such an injury, there would be untoward stress in regard to an upcoming assignment deadline,” Spock says. “I believe this is a sufficient accommodation.”</p><p>McCoy snorts as he stands from his seat and gestures for Spock to sit on the bed. He closes the curtain behind them, reaching out for his scanner. “Accommodations from a Vulcan. Wonders never cease.”</p><p>“The miracle of your bedside manner is a wonder enough. You remain grossly inconsistent.”</p><p>“Shut up, Spock,” McCoy says. His tone is loud enough to express dissatisfaction. “I’m <em>very</em> consistently doctoring here.” He flips through the bioreadings. “When was the last time you slept?”</p><p>An oddly specific question. “Last night.”</p><p>“You sleep eight hours?”</p><p>“Vulcans function on less sleep than humans.”</p><p>“Okay,” McCoy says, studying the scope, and then returning to his PADD. “But something’s not adding up. You stressed about anything? Not eating normally?”</p><p>“I am fine.” Spock glances over at the bioreading chart. “I have found nothing wrong within the normal functions of my body.”</p><p>McCoy put his hands on his waist. “Says you.” As Spock is contemplating this rather succinct reply, McCoy frowns. “I know your heart rate is generally fast, but this part...” Spock looks where his finger has tapped. “I may not be a Vulcan specialist, Spock, but I’ve studied my share of xenobiology enough that this doesn’t look quite right.”</p><p>The holoscreen zooms in. More detailed subdivision and organization of the readings pop up.</p><p>“There are lower levels certainly,” Spock acknowledges. Vulcans do not willingly exhibit symptoms of stress, but Spock does not think it would be practical for McCoy’s focus to be on this. “However, factoring in my role as an educator, as well as the depth of my schedule, it is only logical for them to be affected. There is no reason to overthink this.”</p><p>McCoy is silent for a moment, and then goes to his PADD. “I want you to take leave. A break,” he specifies. “I want you to take time off from work. Need me to say it more times so you don’t willingly misinterpret me?”</p><p>“You require me to take an immediate hiatus from my responsibilities.”</p><p>“That’s exactly what I’m saying. Woo-<em>hoo</em>, glad you Standard too.”</p><p>“Doctor,” Spock says, suddenly alarmed, “I hardly think this is necessary. The readings on my bioscans are not at dangerous levels enough to merit a medical leave.”</p><p>“You forget I was your ship doctor, Spock. I’ve scanned you and Kirk more times in one year than I can count. This just doesn’t feel right to me.” McCoy sighs. “If I’m honest, I’d like to consider you’re a lot better at Jim at regulating your limits, even know we both know you aren’t.” He glares at Spock. “Don’t force my hand. <em>Rest</em> for one week, here’s a note, and then come back to see me.”</p><p>Spock is well enough. He does not think he will need rest.</p><p>Still, he supposes it cannot hurt.</p><p>The weekend, Spock rests. He only completes his grading for four papers, responds to his messages from 1000 to 1500, and takes the time to read a human a play set in Denmark, wherein a man confronted by his father’s ghost believes his uncle is the killer.</p><p>Not much has changed.</p><p>He suspects Doctor McCoy’s concerns are unfounded, so on the next day, he returns to his usual schedule. The week passes easily, and as Spock is currently charged with co-organizing a conference, he decides his visit back to Doctor McCoy can be postponed to a future hospital visit to Kirk.</p><p>--</p><p>The headaches are returning again, but with force. They become more and more frequent. Initial assumptions about their origin, he attributes to the minimized meditation cycles—while he has been habituated to them, these days he finds he has less and less time to complete them. It is busier than usual, with on-the-spot amendments to his routine scheduled work hours he has not accounted for, but Spock presumes that once he has finished this round of obligations, the sudden headaches will diminish with time and no further consequences will follow.</p><p>Spock is very wrong.</p><p>They are playing 3D chess, a pastime Kirk was unaware he had enough patience for, and one that Spock has enjoyed over the years.</p><p>“Check,” Kirk says, a grin on his face.</p><p>Spock studies the arrangement of their pieces. “So I am.” He calculates three potential next moves and moves his rook. “Now I am not.”</p><p>Kirk blinks, then straightens, then leans forward. “What? No way. Oh. <em>Shit</em>.” He squints his eyes at the arrangement. “Okay, yeah, you definitely aren’t.” He moves his King out of the way. “Just you wait.”</p><p>“Check.” How ironically timed.</p><p>“I said to wait!”</p><p>“You implied it would be I who would be waiting.”</p><p>“Well, I’m saying to wait now.”</p><p>“You are permitted to take unlimited time before deciding your next course of action. We are not playing a tournament.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Kirk says, “but I’m supposed to be exercising my body, not my brain. I’m smart enough already here. Don’t rush me.”</p><p>“I believe that ‘rushing’ is your usual modus operandi, disguised under the word ‘impulsive’.”</p><p>“Listen, Spock, don’t you dare try to smart mouth me. I’m trying to beat your ass here and—nice.” Kirk points his queen at Spock’s King. “Check…” He glances around the board. “…mate.”</p><p>Spock stares at the top board, then at the middle and bottom boards. “Fascinating. You did not predict or plan to achieve checkmate at this point.”</p><p>Kirk’s chest has puffed up. “Off the top of my head.”</p><p>“Well done.” It is. Spock had not expected the lone pawn on the lower third of the board to be of much threat. “Have you considered playing ranked games?”</p><p>“I was in the school chess team up until sixth grade?” Kirk reaches over and tips Spock’s King over, a decided metaphor. “But I don’t think I’d have the patience for beating chessmasters. Things that are more casual are fun.”</p><p>“I am a Grandmaster myself.”</p><p>“What, really? I change my mind. Beating chessmasters is fun.”</p><p>“There is a fundamental difference between a chessmaster and a Grandmaster.”</p><p>“What’s the difference?”</p><p>Spock pauses as he resets his own pieces in proper order on the board. “I am the better one,” he says, deliberate.</p><p>Kirk snorts, following suit similarly until they are both on opposite ends of a new game. “Of course, you are. Me or you to start?”</p><p>“White goes first.”</p><p>“Black can go first this time.”</p><p>“Illogical,” Spock murmurs, but he does as Kirk’s expectant gaze wishes, and picks up a pawn.</p><p>
  <em>CLACK.</em>
</p><p>Spock leans back, surveying the recreation room. The walls are off-yellow, the orange trim bright, and the blue is desaturated. He presses the tips of his fingers together. “You will find I am no easy opponent.”</p><p>The man in command gold laughs. “I would never estimate you.” He glances up at the board, but his hands remain interlaced on the table. “Nor your opening moves, Mr. Spock.”</p><p>Surprise dots through Spock’s mind, but the feeling does not stick. He intends to frown, but his body does not express as he wills it. Instead, Spock finds himself raising an eyebrow. “I await your follow up.”</p><p>He does not wait long. The man reaches for a knight. “Your turn.”</p><p>Spock studies the board and elects for another pawn.</p><p>
  <em>CLACK.</em>
</p><p><em>“</em>Shit, Spock,” Kirk says, squinting at the board. “Is this your favourite opener or something?”</p><p>Spock frowns, suddenly, jolting up. His body follows through, limb moving where he wills it instinctively. He observes this, then casts his gaze back to Kirk. “You are…” He watches as Kirk moves a pawn up two squares.</p><p>“I am going to beat your ass,” Kirk says, ever jovial. “Go on. You going to move a pawn again?”</p><p>Spock sits back. He observes the hospital room, with its dark walls and white ceiling, and the windows on the side. Light from the afternoon sun streams in. This is no longer the same room he was in moments before. Colours are muted into calmer blue shades and white. He clenches his fists slightly and they move at his will.</p><p>“Scared?” Kirk asks.</p><p>“I am playing by a well-practiced strategy,” Spock replies. He inspects his own hands. There are no wrinkles. He looks back up at the board and reaches out. He would go for a pawn, but he changes his mind. He reaches for a knight instead, deliberate. “Your move.”</p><p>“Knight this time, huh? How about knight to knight,” Kirk responds, ever jovial. “Let me move mine to—“</p><p>
  <em>CLACK.</em>
</p><p>“Rook to—” Spock replies, across from his Captain.</p><p>The man squints at the board, brown eyes narrowed. A roguish grin spreads on his face. “Interesting, Mr. Spock. Okay. Then I move my pawn to—”</p><p>
  <em>CLACK.</em>
</p><p>“—cool,” Jim nods. “How about—”</p><p>
  <em>CLACK.</em>
</p><p><em>“</em>I’ll take Queen to—”</p><p>
  <em>CLACK.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>CLACK.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>CLACK.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>CLACK.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>CLACK.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>CLACK.</em>
</p><p>Spock wavers at the board. It has changed yet again with another piece. There must be—he is playing two different chess games in complete calm. His head feels like it’s being squeezed between two large hands, an indescribably pain at odds with the experience of the other Spock.</p><p>“Are you alright, Spock?”</p><p>Spock looks up. For a moment, Kirk and the other man superimpose. Their faces and voices become indistinguishable, brown hair with blue eyes, blond hair with brown eyes, reaching out to his hand—</p><p>Spock thrusts his hand away by sudden, overwhelmed instinct.</p><p>A large clatter. The chess set and its pieces fall to the ground as he bumps the table.</p><p>The hospital room returns to clear vision.</p><p>Spock casts a desperate, carefully controlled glance around, left and right. Ceiling, roof, floor. All from the hospital. There are five windows. The ceiling has a crack on it on next to the fourth light. The game of chess is perfectly intact on the table before him, still in the middle of a game, where White will lose in six moves. He tries to settle his breathing. His heartrate, pounding at side, beats faster and faster, and his lungs cannot take in enough oxygen. His fingers ground themselves on the touch of his PADD.</p><p>“—ay, Spock?” Kirk asks. “Maybe we should save the rest for next week if you can’t decide what to do next.”</p><p>How relieved Spock is about his Vulcan training, that it can keep his face solemn in his panic. “I am amenable,” he says, though the words come out sharper than he means them to. His head is pulsing, an ache that spreads to the rest of him. The vision was either incomplete, or he had exited it too early.</p><p>“Are you sure? You seem a little bothered by something. Want to go through the game’s play-by-play?”</p><p>“No,” Spock says, “that will not be necessary.”</p><p>“Oh? Rare that you don’t want to.” Kirk shrugs, lackadaisical. “Students getting you down?”</p><p>“No, they are fine.” He cannot…he must meditate, he thinks, blearily. There is something in him that broke. It was his alternate self in vision who had felt these things, and yet like a cracked piece of glass they echo in Spock himself. Too much at once, he thinks, and he is going to spill. He sets his teeth.</p><p>“Really? When I TA’d, you’d always get one or two who just clash—"</p><p>Spock sets down his PADD. “It is fine.”</p><p>Kirk frowns. He leans back, hands up. “Alright,” he says, voice equally firm. “So let’s talk about something else, then.”</p><p>“It is…” Spock wishes to explain at the same time he knows he cannot. This is his own concern. This is his to worry about, to deal with. It is Spock’s weakness, his lack of control. He had underestimated the strength of those visions and thought himself infallible to their influence. Only temporary in their emotional highs, he had considered them simply a glimpse into the future with no impact on the present.</p><p>Kirk is waiting for him, attention on Spock’s eyes and face. By the furrow in his brown and the lowered sides of his mouth, it is clear he is at least slightly irritated. His body language reads of tense frustration.</p><p>Spock shakes his head. “My apologies, Jim,” he says. He must sleep more, he thinks. Meditate more. He must build upon his old routine until they can build no longer. It appears now the visions no longer are giving him forewarning—but perhaps he has grown too accustomed to them, adapting to the point that they appear to be almost sliding into his reality. “I suspect my inattention to be due to neglect of my mediation cycles in exchange for extra time in programming the newest simulation for the Kobayashi Maru. It is no slight on your company.”</p><p>Kirk’s arms have folded, and he sits with his legs crossed. He gazes at Spock but softens the expression after a moment. He nods, giving a brief, quick smile. “Yeah.” Kirk glances out the window, at the timer on his bioscanning. Spock’s head is pounding. “It’s fine, I’m the one who’s in the hospital, so it’s not like I can get any more interesting. How is the Kobayashi Maru 2: Electric Boogaloo turning out? Joke,” he adds, curtly, before Spock can ask.</p><p>Spock casually puts his palms on his thighs. They are sweaty and would shake otherwise. He takes in what will be an acceptable amount of oxygen. “Programming has been complex. We are incorporating details from the attack of the USS Vengeance onto the Enterprise.”</p><p>“What? We’re actually using that guy?” Kirk thinks about it. “Whose bad idea was that?” Brash. Not at all like the warmth, the slow quiet that Spock has grown to enjoy in his company. But perhaps he is trying to normalize this as Spock has wished.</p><p>“‘That guy’—I would assume you refer to Khan.” It had been Spock’s idea. He does not take Kirk’s slightly personally.</p><p>“He’s a terrorist who blasted my ship and killed my crew. I’m not about to call him by name. Or let other people immortalize him by studying him.”</p><p>“By that logic, Admiral Marcus—”</p><p>Kirk shakes his head. “Explain this to me, Spock. Why are you even calling him by rank?”</p><p>It is best that Spock depart as soon as possible. The threads of his control keep him functional, but soon he is unsure whether or not he will be too light-headed to give impression of calm. “He has not yet been dismissed from his position.”</p><p>“Yeah, because as far as the public is concerned, he’s MIA. You know, what? You’re right. It’d be ignorant not to add Khan to the scenario list. Might as well learn. What’s the status of the simulation so far?”</p><p>“Most of it has been completed. I would postulate it is currently under review.”</p><p>“Because a no-win scenario program can never have enough no-wins?”</p><p>“Every option of loss is a learning opportunity.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Kirk sighs. “I guess.”</p><p>“Indeed,” Spock replies, because it is always best to be of the last word in a conversation. He is tilting forwards and back in his seat, but he is lucky: Kirk has taken the chance to look out the window, away from him. Spock glances down at his hands, clenching hard on his knees. “We are in agreement.”</p><p>“Mm. Nice, once in a while.”</p><p>Spock is unsure if he is welcome to continue or if he is not. A glance up tells him the body language before him is closed, the gaze is unfocused. Spock suspects he might have even missed an eyeroll, or a shrug, or lip movement—what would’ve been a helpful indicator of Kirk’s mood.</p><p>He does not understand what has changed in their dynamic, or if this is Spock’s own fault. He regrets that he does not know the answer.</p><p>“Are you not interested in the,” Spock’s body runs hot and cold; his hands are clammy, his throat is tight, “possibility you may be asked to test the scenarios?” He must hurry up and wrap up this conversation. He must leave at once before he is asked. He can no longer feign wellness.</p><p>“Maybe.” Kirk slouches more. He wipes his eyes with a heavy hand. “Bit burned out by the last time I did the Kobayashi Maru.” He looks up, then straightens abruptly. “Spock? You alright?”</p><p>Spock does not think he could lie to him. He does not wish to.</p><p>“I am…” Spock stops himself before the words stammer. He forces himself to sigh. He stands himself abruptly to Kirk’s rigid surprise and grabs his PADD and bag. “I must go. My class.” The words are as brief an explanation as he can manage. The world is beginning to swim again, and his head is pounding as if there were someone inside of it, hitting over and over again. He tastes stomach acid from his tongue. “I will see you next time.”</p><p>“I—” Kirk looks up at him helplessly. He looks like he wants to ask, or say something more. “Yeah,” he decides on. His hand touches Spock’s elbow, a barely perceptible touch that disappears just as quickly, just as much a part of Spock wishes it would linger as he wishes it would not. “See you. Good luck with your students.”</p><p>--</p><p>“Spock!” Doctor McCoy halts him on his way out. He puts both hands atop Spock’s shoulders—too close, temperature too cool for Spock’s liking—and glares. Humans are too tactile; it is only to Spock’s sudden regret that his friends seem to be more so. “Glad I caught up with you.”</p><p>“Your shift does not begin until 1600 hours today,” Spock manages out. A headache is beginning to throb stronger behind his eyes. Spock blinks a bit more, steadying his breathing.</p><p>“That was before I saw you signed in. What did I say, Spock? Come see me after a week.”</p><p>McCoy steers him into an empty room, never breaking stride. He sits him forcefully down at a circular table.</p><p>Spock’s knees give way. Luckily, the seat is beneath him before the fact is obvious.</p><p>It is not an examination room. There are lights above and there are multiple tables. It is quiet here, with scarce a biobed or examination table in sight. At the side is a sink, a few plates set to dry, and an upside-down mug. On the left is a standard sized refrigerator.</p><p>“We are in a kitchen?”</p><p>“Break room,” McCoy corrects. “I’m going to make you tea so I can model appropriate relaxation behavior for adults.”</p><p>“I am not a child,” Spock protests, as McCoy pours from the kettle into a very lumpy looking mug.</p><p>“No,” McCoy agrees, setting it before him. It is a firm placement, as well as a firm voice that books no misbehavior. “<em>Children</em> get apple juice. If you want to insist…”</p><p>“Tea will be sufficient,” Spock answers quickly. And then, after a pause, he closes his hands around the mug. It is better to finish it quickly. The warmth leeches into his skin, but he can tell it is just the right temperature for him. Not freshly boiled but kept at optimum temperature. “Thank you.”</p><p>“Hey.” McCoy looks him over as Spock takes a controlled, long glug. “Are you doing alright?”</p><p>Spock lowers his mug. McCoy sits on the edge of the seat, eyes forward and scrutinizing. “I am attending to my duties with no issue.”</p><p>“Would you tell anyone if you were burning out? Do you know what the symptoms look like?”</p><p>Spock closes his eyes briefly, just once. Another human expression. “Doctor, I am a Vulcan,” he attempts, reopening them. “If you would permit me—” He rises too abruptly. His centre of balance wavers.</p><p>“Spock.” McCoy’s hand closes around his bicep, steadying Spock’s balance. “It’s no weakness to admit when things are too much. You may be half-Vulcan, but you’re half-human too. And it’s a human need to take a break.”</p><p>Spock attempts to feel the ground at his feet. It is uneven, even though visually it is all tiles.</p><p>“You can’t sustain yourself on hard work forever,” McCoy is saying.</p><p>“I am Vulcan,” Spock repeats. How much more must he say this? How much— “I am in greater knowledge of my own limitations than you are.” His hand closes over McCoy’s wrist—he sucks in a breath at the concern, the wreath of emotion—before he pulls it off him. “Please respect my capabilities.”</p><p>McCoy grabs his arm. “Spock.” It is an uncharacteristic show of fierce, quiet, solemnity from him. “You look like shit. Let me book you a room, let you rest—”</p><p>“I will see you next time,” Spock tells, pulling that grip firmly off him. “For my appointment. Note I am not in defiance of your current orders, doctor. I will return home and rest as is recommended.”</p><p>“Recommended?” McCoy lets out a scoff. He looks divided between helping Spock against his will and strangling him himself. “Alright,” he says snipped. “Have it your way.”</p><p>“Good day, Doctor.”</p><p>Spock turns on his heel and leaves, sweat matting beneath his bangs, urging his back to stay straight.</p><p>--</p><p>There is a comm call waiting for him, still ringing, as he finally returns to the sanctuary of his home. No simultaneous thoughts. Nyota’s name shines at him, but Spock utters, “Lights, ten percent,” and stumbles. He kicks off his boots, loosens his collar and removes his shirt hazardously. “Temperature, Setting 4.”</p><p>He feels sick, burning from the inside while the outside is cold hands and feet. The room sways, pulsating in different sizes with each blink. The churning of his stomach unsteadies him. Sweat has long since soaked down his neck and back that his skin shivers in the cool, then gradually heated air. Spock is breathing through his mouth, and he grits his groans behind clenched teeth with as much fervor.</p><p>A water shower or soak in a bath would help fix his temperature, but Spock feels he can barely breathe enough for that. He contemplates opening the window—no, it is cold outside. It would negate the point of increasing the heat in his apartment.</p><p>His head is foggy while his breaths scatter in rhythm.</p><p>Spock stumbles to the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of water with shaky hands. Some spills against the counter. He should clean it up. After, then. He drinks, and though it is room-temperature, it barely feels like anything down his throat. As if he burns from the inside, the water is not cold enough to chill him.</p><p>In the pause after three cups of water and his knees shaking, Spock registers the ring of the comm. He looks at it, and blinks as the words grow blurry before his eyes. He leans forward unintentionally and stumbles forward.</p><p>Spock catches himself on the side of the chair, which squeaks loudly as it scrapes against the laminate floor. He presses his cold hand to his forehead, then slides his palm over his eyes. Arm braced against its back, he curls over the chair, breathing through his mouth. He must lie down. Standing is too much right now.</p><p>The comm keeps ringing as Spock collapses on his bed, eyebrows furrowed. He tries to breath, the coolness of the sheets beneath him soaking into his sweaty skin. He tosses himself onto his back, groaning, one arm coming to cover his face. He reminds himself that if it were truly an urgency, the comm call would connect right away. He will lie here, just for a moment. A little moment, and then a second moment more. Just long enough until he can pick himself up.</p><p>The comm rings and rings, a shrill blip in the background.</p><p>Just a little moment.</p><p>He closes his eyes. Spock does not pick it up.</p><p>--</p><p>
  <em>--ock.</em>
</p><p>Spock is trying to reach out. He keeps hearing this voice. He keeps hearing his name, and he does not know what is wanted out of him.</p><p><em>Why?</em> He asks. <em>Why do you call me?</em></p><p><em>Oh, Spock,</em> says the voice. It is as near as it is far away. <em>Where are you?</em></p><p>--</p><p>(There is a vision. There must be.</p><p>But Spock cannot retain it. It slips through his fingers as if it were not at all physical enough to hold them, but it disappears from his mind so quickly he cannot say it is his at all.)</p><p>--</p><p>It is dark when Spock wakes. His internal clock is out of time. He slowly pushes himself up from the bed. The sheets are soaked with sweat. Spock shakes his head and strips them off the bed into the hamper, and then deliberates his own state of unseemliness.</p><p>“Temperature Setting, 3,” he croaks. Winces at the scrape of his voice.</p><p>The table has been nudged. The closest chair beside it is perched on hind legs, kept aloft only by its partial weight transfer to against another chair. Spock straightens it, gathers a few pieces of paper that floated off, and sets them under a paperweight.</p><p>He goes to the kitchen next. The water he remembers spilling has long dried up by now. Sliding his hand over the dry stone confirms this.</p><p>Spock picks up the cup on the floor, noting its chipped edge, and finds a shard on ground he deposits into the recycler. Filling the cup up to the brim with water, Spock presses the unchipped edge to his lips to drink.</p><p>Spock takes a mouthful of water, then another.</p><p>“Lights at fifty percent,” he orders, and attempts to relocate his bag, and within it, his personal PADD. Yesterday was a Friday. Today should be the weekend. It would be illogical, even ill, for Spock to have slept longer than a day, but he still has time-sensitive obligations to complete.</p><p>As he passes the comm, he realizes Nyota has left a message.</p><p>
  <em>&gt;&gt;&gt;Now, I could assume you’re busy and just forgot, but I know you. Call me so I know you’re not hurt or something bad has happened to you.</em>
</p><p>Spock reads it once, then twice again. He contemplates making a response later in the week. There is nothing that Nyota can do so many light years away, just as there is nothing that Spock would feel at ease to share. Even now, the lethargy lags his body.</p><p>Despite it, he finds himself sliding into the seat. She would be furious if he were to lie, he reminds himself. Realistically speaking, it is better to inform her in specifics as to not worry her or draw her ire. Spock decides to omit the details.</p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;I apologize for my late response. I overslept.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&gt;&gt;&gt;That’s ironic. I thought you had a carefully mandated sleep schedule.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;Some events have been out of my control.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&gt;&gt;&gt;I’d love to hear about it. Because that’s not already giving me warning signals.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;I am fine by human standards.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&gt;&gt;&gt;I’ll believe it when I hear it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;I believe you meant to write ‘see’.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&gt;&gt;&gt;No, I wrote ‘hear’. That is very much a clue for you to arrange some evenings off in your schedule for me.</em>
</p><p>Spock studies the phrasing of the words carefully.</p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;The Farragut will be returning to Terra?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&gt;&gt;&gt;In two weeks. For six days. Get ready. I’ve been on replicator food for months, and I’m starving for actual food and intelligent conversation.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&lt;&lt;&lt;I will likely on New Vulcan at that time, overseeing my next, next group of students. There will be a longer period of absence than usual from Terra.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>&gt;&gt;&gt;What dates? We can probably manage at least one dinner.</em>
</p><p>Spock inspects his calendar. The dates of his returns from his next training trip coincide with the last few days of Nyota’s shore leave.</p><p>They agree on at least one date and set a time.</p><p>Six o’clock, Sunday, dinner.</p><p>Perhaps that will be one thing to look forward to, these days.</p><p>--</p><p>There is no issue on the following trip to Amniiba. Perhaps it is the routine of it, the length of it, or even the specialization of most of these perhaps it is the length of it that serves him well enough. What sickness he felt has since disappeared. Unfortunately for Spock, there have been no further leads on the quadruped creature or attacks logged, suggesting it was an isolated incident. He does not see Spock Prime in person, but he does note different developments in the main city of the colony on their arrival. Lately, with the increase of SFA activity, the Federation has increased to pre-approved access, and trade flourishes for it, resulting in a busy port that leaves his sleepy-eyed students brimming with energy.</p><p>From port, Spock and his class move from the Bradbury’s shuttle to the one provided by the New Vulcan council for interplanet travel. This one takes them from the heart of the new capital and out past dunes of sand to where desert farms have been reestablished in order to ensure the colony a stable access to food sources.</p><p>On arrival to the desert farm, the head farmer, introducing themself as Ityhlaav, welcomes their team. They instruct some of their personnel to take an equal number of groups to their stations: Spock’s latest group of cadets hold a mixed focus on and geology and agriculture, so there is a great deal of smelling and licking rock samples involved, as well as grabbing dirt to assess drainage quality of the soil through feeling texture. Other responsibilities are plant identification based on taxonomy and assisting as extra hands on the farms. There, they will be experimenting with liquid clay to condition desert soil, maintaining artificial irrigation systems, and attaining practical experience in vertical farming.</p><p>On his own tour, Ityhlaav points Spock’s attention to the small bodies huddled around different areas of greenery, their faces wrapped carefully to avoid skin damage from overexposure to the sun. Some hold onto small clayware pots with plants in them, and others scatter seeds and use other agriculture tools with intriguing degrees of proficiency. Their skirts peeking out from under heavy aprons, the sizing of their equipment, and their young voices give them away.</p><p>“I was unaware the children were educated in this part of food production,” Spock mentions. He remembers education in the spherical domes, repetition through rote, and comprehension through logical progression of theories and concepts.</p><p>“It is an unconventional idea, certainly,” Ityhlaav responds kindly, their blue antennae twisting. “As unconventional as an Andorian who decides to serve in less militaristic pursuits, until you remember that the Andorian Academy is known for its art. These things will always be valued, but simply not as largely encouraged in the public eye.”</p><p>They pass by two Vulcan children, one measuring the height of a bush, while the other one records the findings.</p><p>“This is illogical,” one is saying. She is small—Vulcan children are small, but it has been many years since Spock has stood near one that he can make the comparison. The hat she wears is staggeringly huge in proportion. “I do not understand why in darkness it grows so well, but in the heat of day it withers. The irrigation system must be broken.”</p><p>“The system is not broken,” answers the other, attired similarly. There is a ribbon on the edge of her hat. “You simply do not know how to use it. I suspect you have been sneaking out at night to overwater Subject 721 due to your lack of experience.”</p><p>“N’Vea, I warn you I may be experiencing emotion at the moment.”</p><p>N’Vea sniffs. “How very un-Vulcan your control is these days.”</p><p>“Un-Vulcan?” the smaller one stands at her full height. She pushes the measuring rod right into N’Vea’s chest. “May thy lands forget thy <em>name</em>.”</p><p>N’Vea takes a step back. “You <em>dare</em> curse at me?”</p><p>“Is there an issue?” Ityhlaav interrupts them. Their body language is mutually stiff. “While you may be children, intolerance is unacceptable here. I will have no issue sending you back in shame in front of your your peers.”</p><p>“No, <em>T’Kahr</em>,” N’Vea says politely, applying the honorific. Her expression and the stiffness of her shoulders, however, read slight guilt. It betrays her youth; she is not at all accustomed yet to maintaining a façade when questioned. Her gaze flits over to Spock, an unknown Vulcan adult, before sh looks back at Ityhlaav. “L’Vor is simply a bearer of inadequacy, rather than of infinite learning.”</p><p>“N’Vea may be named after a seed which is life,” L’Vor complains, louder, “but she is a seed which is poison to me.”</p><p>Here, N’Vea grows agitated. “You are a liar,” N’Vea says. Her face twists slightly in her brow, the only evidence of emotion. “You told me you enjoyed my frankness. Do you mean to demean us both more due to your deceit?”</p><p>L’Vor reacts in a Vulcan way. She folds her hands behind her back and holds her head up higher. “Perhaps it is better that you experience for yourself the difference between frank and harsh,” she replies, “before I am more convinced to do it to you.”</p><p>“Enough!” Ityhlaav exclaims. “You’ve fought four times since your arrival here, and I’ve done everything I can to fix this. I have no choice but to call Selek to reassign you to different groups and settle your disputes.”</p><p>It is the name that Spock Prime has chosen that causes N’Vea to bite her bottom lip. She blinks her eyes rapidly. Even L’Vor, to whom this situation is most advantageous, shakes her head rapidly.</p><p>“No,” she says, the slightest of panic at the edge of her words, “<em>T’Kahr,</em> that is unnecessary.”</p><p>“Do not tell him,” N’Vea says, similarly aggrieved. At Ityhlaav’s impartial expression, she turns to Spock. It is to his surprise that she begs him. “I beseech you, sir. You have heard our quarrel. It is one between children<em>.</em>”</p><p>As a Vulcan child, however, she must be aware that this logic does not stand well.</p><p>Spock inclines his head, considering. “From my understanding of the situation thus far, your conflict has been continued for far longer than one instance. Such matters must eventually be escalated or there will be no end.” He watches L’Vor. “It appears you both are in constant disagreement.”</p><p>“It is not that,” L’Vor says. She shakes her head again more. “Our conflict is interpersonal and will be resolved with time due to its temporary offence. Elder Selek is much occupied with the colony; it would be irrational to call his attention all the way here simply because of our incompatibility. We do not bring harm to anyone.”</p><p>“We will resolve this between ourselves.” N’Vea thrusts her PADD to L’Vor. She turns towards her. “I will show you how to measure and use the irrigation system properly, but you must promise me you will remain unemotional. It disturbs me so.”</p><p>“You disturb me more,” L’Vor protests. “You blame me for your own inconveniences and discomforts, to things that I cannot control more than I am capable of. We do not need interference,” she says, to both Spock and Ityhlaav. “We apologize for the interruption and we will be on our way.” Here, she tugs the fabric at N’Vea’s elbow, and they depart together.</p><p>“They are always like this,” Ityhlaav admits to Spock. They watch as N’Vea pulls her arm out, only to grasp for L’Vor’s arm sleeve after. “Against each other’s throats unless you are to pit them against a party that would separate them. I was told they survived the destruction of old Vulcan together—the last two children to be evacuated before the planet was destroyed.”</p><p>There would have been older Vulcans on board the evacuation shuttles, but they would have been traumatized by the screams of their people, incapable of assisting in rebalance as unemotionally as would be needed. A psionic scream, an immediate resonance of that magnitude of pain, fear, and death would be unimaginably painful.</p><p>“Death changes a great deal of things,” Spock says, when he realizes that the Andorian waits for an answer.</p><p>“Yes. But they are still alive,” Ityhlaav answers. “And they are living well enough now with no regret, is what matters, I think.”</p><p>It is not a conversation rife with philosophy, nor is it one that tells Spock anything different than what he is already aware of and what he has already heard. Spock tours the rest of the facilities and is left once Ityhlaav has deemed Spock's understanding of the layout sufficient. He checks up on his students and advises on technical difficulties. He checklists for participation grades in his head, noting instances of stellar leadership or exceptional skillsets for future recommendation letters. In the three days they work on the farms, Spock's students progress well enough, and few issues rise outside of a case of a few disagreements. The conversation slips from mind easily as Spock focuses on the day-to-day requirements of his supervision.</p><p> On the fourth day, Spock’s replacement —a professor specializing in the development of desert agroforestry—arrives as his relief to oversee the secondary half long-term stay of their assignment. The same shuttle comes to pick up the Vulcan children to return them to the capital. Spock rides with them; he settles into a seat by the door after all of them have chosen a spot.</p><p>Spock takes out his PADD, intending to review the lessons he will teach on his return to Terra. He manages as far as his first two slides before he is jolted from his focus by the rouse of voices of his shuttlemates. While controlled, each excitedly plan their own next moves.</p><p>Not too far from his spot, Spock spies N'Vea and L’Vor. Compared to their peers, they are quieter, and they seem illogically pleased with the dirt on their faces and hands. By their constant careful glances, they are most pleased with their prize, seated right between them: a beautiful isuke in an earthern pot.</p><p>--</p><p>A vision hits on the starship ride back, one that Spock is neither mentally nor emotionally prepared for. He is in the midst of contemplating the scene, of the strength of the next generation, and comparing it to himself.</p><p>It begins first with not a scream, but a wrenching of his heart. It squeezes and twists, a sudden ripped feeling that drops him to hands and knees.</p><p>Spock is convinced for a moment that something has ripped his katra straight from his body. He is wheezing, curling in agony.</p><p>Every part of his body pains. His lungs run shallow, as if tearing with each exhale. He cannot breathe, and his stomach churns with nausea. Light squeezes his pupils; it is difficult to keep them open. He is leaning against wall, curled up.</p><p>“<em>Spock</em>!”</p><p>Again, Spock thinks. That voice calls him. <em>His</em> voice.</p><p>A part of him is willed to move; it takes everything he has. Legs first. Hand out. Brace weight. Push. He fights against his mind, which wants so much to shut down, to lay down. It is with every control Spock possesses to straighten his back; it is with everything he can muster that he pulls the sides of his uniform jacket down.</p><p>He is moving on automatic now. Body weight distribution. The body counterweights each motion. He turns, moving closer.</p><p>The man is blurry in vision, but Spock knows he is there. They are separated by thick glass, but Spock would know him every time.</p><p>“The ship…?” he croaks. It is not even a question. It is an interruption of speech. “Out of danger?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Spock nods. You must nod to indicate understanding.</p><p>And then he sees it. The expression, the emotion—</p><p>His heart is full, but his breath quivers.</p><p>“Don’t grieve, Admiral.” He must explain it. He could not bear to leave him like this. Where he holds his katra is a gaping hole—what is left of him barely holds on. “…it is logical. The needs of the many…outweigh…”</p><p>“…the needs of the few,” the man answers. If he could reach past the glass, Spock knows he would. If he could save Spock, take his place, Spock knows this as well.</p><p>“Or the one…”</p><p><em>It is logical</em>, Spock thinks. It is only logical to die so that the crew may live. It is only logical that—</p><p>--Jim, laying there, his breath stopped. Logic would have told Spock that the Captain’s life was not wasted, much like I-Chaya’s so many years ago. The Captain had saved the life of his crew, a most respectful sacrifice. But no, it is <em>Jim</em> dead. <strong><em>Jim</em></strong><em> <strong>is</strong> <strong>dead</strong></em>—</p><p>--Spock’s every breath is ripping his chest apart. He is saying something, he knows, but it takes everything he has for his voice to come through.</p><p><em>I am dying</em>, Spock thinks. <em>I am <strong>dying.</strong></em></p><p>What is there in death for him? His vision is blackening, and he hears nothing of his life, and barely the muffled sounds of the man’s breath at the glass. He is calling Spock’s name.</p><p>(Imagine if this man were Jim…could Spock bear it?</p><p>-- “<em>I’m not allowed to die, but you are?</em>”—)</p><p>His hand, draped out in a ta’al on the glass, falls, and so does his last breath.</p><p>Spock dies.</p><p>No—</p><p><strong><em>No</em></strong>!</p><p>Spock jolts back, hacking, coughing, fingers clenching on the sheets of his bed. He is half bent over it, his knees burning on the floor, his face turned sideways onto the mattress.</p><p>He is gasping for air that cannot fill his lungs fast enough. He shivers. It is too cold for him, Spocks thinks. It is far too cold.</p><p>--</p><p>Spock does not know how long it takes before he possesses some semblance of sanity. When the comm rings and Spock looks to his reflection, his eyes are wild. And then, just like a spell, he returns to himself as he registers the name.</p><p>Spock trembles. He climbs slowly to his feet, and then he contemplates ignoring it.</p><p>It is not Nyota who has commed. It is Kirk, under a reasoning that justifies abuse of hospital resources to make social calls.</p><p>Spock accepts it.</p><p>“Show me the sand,” Kirk says, the instant the call picks up. His grin is at odds with Spock’s state of mind. It is thanks to Spock’s Vulcan control that he does not sweat before him, does not expose how much Spock’s insides feel ripped apart. Spock stares at him, frozen. “Spock? The comm working alright?”</p><p>“My apologies,” Spock says, slowly. Seeing Kirk alive and well before him startles him, though he logically knows that Kirk remains on earth. The same feeling of deliriousness, he thinks. Of joy upon seeing him, of relief. Spock sinks down slowly in his seat, a fact that Kirk notices slightly by quick glance of his eyes. But he says nothing, and to this, Spock tries to make sense of the call. His fingers tremble. “I was unaware you were interested in precuring a sample.”</p><p>“No, like—the view. Of New Vulcan? You don’t really share your schedule, but Uhura said I might be able to catch you in time.”</p><p>Kirk’s words switch in uneven rhythm. Spock tries to assume the meaning, he cannot…</p><p>“I am in a starship at the moment,” Spock says, after a moment too long. He makes great efforts to seem welcoming. He is grateful for Kirk’s initiative as he is grateful for company. The fears and emotions of the vision become faster compartmentalized; it is then. Here is now. “Surface images of Amniiba are easily found on the Extranet. In addition, the comm station cannot be moved.”</p><p>“Take holophotos for me next time,” Kirk laughs. Spock desires to hear it in person, rather than see it and hear it through subspace communications light years away. The holo cannot show the minute details of Kirk’s hand gestures, or the way that he speaks with his entire body, leaning towards Spock. “I can’t believe I haven’t asked all this time. I’ve clearly failed of my duty as the best human you know.”</p><p>“Incorrect,” Spock murmurs. “You are already human.”</p><p>Jim is amused. “Thought I’d try it. Your opinion matters too, you know.”</p><p>For all its inanities, the conversation they have together is soothing to him, a balm onto his heart. That Spock is not alone. That he is still alive. That there is simply three days (<em>two nights, four hours, fifty-seven minutes, sixteen seconds</em>) left in the journey. That if he so wishes on his return, he may go to Starfleet Medical, go see Kirk—<em>Jim</em>—and know that unlike the coldness of glass under his fingers, if he should so morbidly succumb to death to death on the spot, he would not be alone.</p><p>Spock has that sudden, loaded thought, in the middle of Kirk’s grand retelling of a tale about the patient two doors over. And then he is glad, if not grimly, for this conversation, because it grounds him enough that he can pretend that vision never happened.</p><p>He can pretend he does not know what it is like to die, to feel everything and then nothing. To know staunchly that he does not regret it because it was a life unwasted, a death of peace and dignity.</p><p>Spock’s breath quickens. His head pulses and his stomach churns. He is swaying only minutely, but his hands are shaking, and his body sweats. At once, Spock is hot and cold. </p><p>“I must leave,” he tells Kirk, and he hangs up too quickly for him to respond.</p><p>--</p><p>(He throws up until his stomach is empty. He cannot sleep. He cannot meditate. He is clutching at his head, and his breath comes ragged. He lies on the bed, but even with the temperature set high in these quarters, it is not warm enough for him.</p><p><em>Spock</em>, he hears.</p><p>Stop, he thinks. Stop.</p><p>It is too cold.)</p><p>--</p><p>Vulcans do not experience horror; Spock experiences the mildest of alarm when Doctor McCoy walks through the door for his post-arrival physical, snaps his fingers, and points right at him. Spock straightens on instinct.</p><p>“Talk,” McCoy orders, before making the scan.</p><p>“It is…my sleep and my meditation have not been optimal,” he says, before he can think. He lowers his head instantly, realizing that the situation is perhaps more dire than he would have preferred it.</p><p>No. He was aware of it. He had specifically decided to request a different doctor on his departure from the <em>Bradbury</em>. Spock supposes he had forgotten to follow through with it in the scramble to organize his students. The unfortunate timing of that vision had meant that he had lost three days’ worth of office hours—time he will have to make up later, judging by the volume of messages in his inbox.</p><p>“Spock,” McCoy says, louder. “Tell me what I’m looking at here.”</p><p>Spock does not have to look at the holoscreen to see that the results are less than flattering, healthwise.</p><p>“I thought you were taking breaks,” McCoy continues, when it becomes clear that Spock cannot will himself to speak more. “But then again, sometimes I also think I’m the only sane man alive. Has it ever occurred to you genius types that just because you <em>can</em> have a full schedule, doesn’t mean you should?”</p><p>“I assumed I could manage,” Spock replies. He feels ill. There are side effects from that vision that make his stomach churn and his headache. He wonders what it is Kirk felt like to die from radiation, and whether or not there is a difference enough the aftereffects to human, half-human, or half-Vulcan cells. In that vision, there had been quiet triumph, yes, as well as relief, but there had been…something else too.</p><p>It is something Spock fears thinking too much on again. He has spent too long trying to acclimatize himself to the deaths of others. He does not think he could do well now on his own mortality.</p><p>This is one more difference then, between he and Spock Prime.</p><p>“I had a bad feeling about this last time too,” McCoy snaps at him, dragging Spock back into the present. He is pacing now, staring at the bioscans in grievance. “What’s going on? I’m writing you a goddamned medical note, so you’d better turn that into your supervisor. No—” He rubs at his forehead, teeth grit, and points at Spock. “One month leave starting Monday. Or hell, today actually, knowing you. Done and done.”</p><p>Spock has to repeat those words in his head to retain them. Then, he stiffens. A month is too much and unreasonable in such short notice. He has to make up his office hours and answer messages. He has classes to attend to, assignments to oversee, meetings to attend, and papers to grade. Finding a replacement for even a month means his students will fall behind and others may be negatively impacted.</p><p>He protests as much.</p><p>“I warned you already. Should’ve prepared it ahead of time.”</p><p>“Doctor—”</p><p>Merciless, McCoy shakes his head. “Spock, this isn’t a competition about making yourself irreplaceable. They survived without you for a year. They can do it again, no problem.” He sends the note to Spock’s PADD. “Take the month off. That’s an order.”</p><p>--</p><p>(The doctor makes Spock tea before he leaves, hustling out before returning with two steaming mugs with small metal spoons in them. He uses bagged loose-leaf and hot water has been poured immediately after boiling point. He makes Spock read the words off of the medical note until satisfaction, and has Spock generate a list of activities to do that would constitute as rest.</p><p>Spock spoons the tea bag out of the way to drink. The tea is bitter, but it goes down warmly.)</p><p>--</p><p>Spock does not take the month’s rest. He takes it as leisurely the weekend as he has the previous time, but there are always urgent responses and requests, and Spock’s scheduling is busy enough without pushing more work for later. He has to make up what time he has lost. He does attempt to complete his current workload in a shorter period of time and make deliberate attempts to delegate what he can trust to others; that Doctor McCoy has also threatened to forward the note to his supervisor is horrifying. For one thing, Spock is inclined to believe he may actually do it, so he requests a substitute from the department after the end of the unit—at which time he will rest properly as required.</p><p>It will take time to arrange it, is the response. Spock forces himself to swallow down something light during his meals, but his stomach seems unhappy for it.</p><p>On Monday morning, he has ensured he has sufficient calories to last the day. The changing of the weather does not yield kind results. He finds his temperature regulation odd at times; at times Starfleet temperatures which have been fine for him before are colder than usual. In the odd minutes, they are stifling, hotter than a desert.</p><p>His body feels like a plague. He cannot stop his hands from shaking as he approaches the podium. It is as a sickness seems to render him lethargic and slow, though for all intents and purposes his mind is as put together as ever.</p><p>Spock manages well enough. Forty minutes of a lecture with slides he has had prepared from the month before classes began. He blinks, vision blinking black and then colored, blood rushing warm through his ears.</p><p>He cannot breathe, he thinks, clutching the edges of the podium. Spock shakes his head to clear his sight…</p><p>“I will accept only Times New Roman at twelve-point font size,” he begins, trying to continue. The words sound plugged in his ears, as if they are too far away. They are cold to him, and his body is heating up. He is swaying. His chest is tightening. His voice…he cannot speak.</p><p>The floor moves too quickly for Spock to stop his descent.</p><p>His hands shake, the tiles cool on his palms. He tries to push himself up, but his head drops back on the floor.</p><p>—<em>Spock—</em></p><p>Spock feels his eyelids fluttering. He is half-aware that his students are standing. Several of them approach him, shouting, tapping on the floor beside his head, but his field of vision grows smaller and smaller.</p><p>He closes his eyes shut and tries to breathe.</p><p>--</p><p>
  <em>Spock…</em>
</p><p>Someone is calling his name. Someone…</p><p>There is a cool feeling at his brow, a ghost-touch on his psi-points that passes through skin and into his mind. It is soothing, as if there were a blanket of desert air around him. It catches him, haunting, in embrace, before it releases him. He yearns for it, and yet it pulls farther and farther away.</p><p>Spock exhales with it, and his body shudders. It shrugs the tension off like a second skin, and he settles into a dreamless sleepiness.</p><p>--</p><p>Ceilings are growing to become more and more of a familiar sight, less for the frequency of them and more for the truth that Spock is biding his time. He lays on a biobed in a single room with no windows, and a single curtain drawn to the side. His headache is cleared, he feels more well than he has the entire month, and Spock moves neither inch nor centimetre. Thrums of machinery throng gently for his neighbour beside him, the faint steps and conversations of the people passing by their room a gentle ambience of noise. His arms folded over his stomach; his hands remain interlaced. He presses the tips of his thumbs together and maintains his breathing pattern and pulse rate.</p><p>The bioreading on the other side of his bed beeps carefully. The time reads the date and the time—only seven hours have passed since Spock’s morning class. Unfortunate, Spock reflects. He will have to reorganize the remainder of the schedule for his classes for the semester.</p><p>The log of his heartrate is engaging in interest, suddenly interrupted by sudden heavy steps. Spock turns his head only slightly.</p><p>Doctor McCoy yanks the curtain open, and then pulls it closed behind him. “How long have you been awake?” Already, he steps to the edge of the biobed. He looms over Spock, eyes narrowed. It is a rather intimidating proximity despite the difference in their height when standing upright. “Sensors told me nothing.”</p><p>“An hour or so,” Spock replies.</p><p>“Are you serious?” He scans Spock without prerequisite, scowling at the satisfactory readings recorded on the screen. “Damn Vulcans. Can’t even tell when they’re breathing or dying. And then they bring you in when it’s my shift.” One, two buttons later, McCoy jerks his head to look at him, spinning the holoscreen over so that Spock can read his scans post-arrival in emergency. “You want to explain yourself? Look at this. Look at this and I dare you to lie straight to my face.”</p><p>Vulcans do not feel uncomfortable, but Spock cannot help but feel it coursing through his veins under the magnitude of McCoy’s stare. He will attempt to bluff otherwise. He raises his head, words prepared on his tongue, only for McCoy to curl his fingers closed in, save for one thumb. He jerks it up into the air.</p><p>“Up,” McCoy snaps. “I want to check your breathing.”</p><p>Spock is obedient until the length unconventional silence itself unnerves him. “I did not intend—”</p><p>“You have a choice. Month long hospital rest, or month-long home rest? Because clearly, your little ‘rest’ at home wasn’t enough.”</p><p>“I hardly think—” Spock closes his mouth as McCoy waits for him. He breathes in and considers his options carefully. At this point, he can very well say he has surpassed regular allowances neglecting his health. “Very well. I will choose home rest.” He pushes himself off the bed, noting how McCoy steps to leave him room, and then walks beside him. “I am still capable of autonomous movement. Surely that does not require an escort.”</p><p>“I’ll trust you as far as I can fly.” McCoy scowls. He shoots another withering glare. This one quells Spock’s conditioned response to tell him that humans are incapable of the hollowed bone density required of flight. “Other option is hogtieing you to a damn bed, so you’d better be fine with this. Come here.” McCoy has grabbed Spock’s arm. If Spock so willed it, he could break the hold easily, but he stumbles instead.</p><p>Humans confuse him. “The exit is the opposite direction.”</p><p>“I’m not entirely heartless. Jim’s been asking like crazy about you since you left. It’s like he wants you two to be attached at the hip.” Spock’s side gives a flip. “Might as well give you one time to flap your jaw at him. Even you can’t concentrate on grading however many papers you need and inventing a whole curriculum overnight.”</p><p>Spock considers telling McCoy that Vulcans are capable of multitasking, and he is proficient at simultaneously employing these skills on speech, thought, planning, and writing. He dismisses the consideration, quickly. It is not unwise to provoke where it is unnecessary.</p><p>It does not take long for them to traverse the halls and up the elevator. Spock was placed on only four lower floors (“Free bed’s a free bed,” McCoy says, “don’t you get picky.”), and outside of a nurse and her patient sitting quietly in a wheelchair, they encounter no others.</p><p>Kirk, for his part, is delighted to see them, especially as it is not a Friday. Things that do not follow routine always delight him. And it is odd too, Spock finds. For all the heaviness in his side, he finds his steps into the room lighter. He feels as if he might never be weighed down. It is too irrationally sudden, but Spock cannot find in himself to observe it further when Kirk’s smile lights up.</p><p>“Aww,” Kirk says, “here are my two most favouritest people in the world. Did you two find something in common enough to cement your friendship?”</p><p>“The one who hates you and the one who also hates you?” McCoy asks, wry. “Not hard.”</p><p>“Spock doesn’t <em>hate </em>me,” Kirk replies. He winks at Spock, but it is accompanied by a sort of mischief that Spock does not quite follow. Kirk turns back to McCoy. “And you just grudgingly love-hate me. Joanna told me, and she’d never lie to me.”</p><p>Joanna, as Spock understands, is McCoy’s daughter. In medbay on the Enterprise, he had often seen letters and drawings posted and framed near the man’s desk.</p><p>“Joanna lies to keep you happy because you won’t go away otherwise.” McCoy sits down without preamble. He drags a chair out for Spock before leaning over to adjust the temperature settings. The room warms to a comfortable temperature. “Now give me that chart you’re hiding under your pillow.”</p><p>Kirk frowns as Spock settles himself down politely with his hands on his knees. “How’d you know about that? Nurse DeRudder said she’d keep it a secret.”</p><p>“I’ve seen every trick in the book and I roomed with you for four years,” McCoy informs him. “Plus, DeRudder likes me more.” He reaches out with a hand and wriggles his fingers. “Come on.”</p><p>“Pretty sure DeRudder likes me better,” Kirk mutters, and grudgingly hands over the chart from where he has seen fit to stash it. Spock notes a peek of plastic from inside the pillowcase, but Kirk pushes the edge of cloth over it without so much of a blink. “On account of the fact we’re both blue-eyed, blond, and beautiful.”</p><p>“I am of the opinion Nurse DeRudder approves of me best,” Spock says, to correct completely incorrect misgivings amongst the humans. “She has spoken in great appreciation for my personality.”</p><p>“Don’t hurt me by saying it like it’s the truth like that,” Kirk protests. He slouches. “You might have a great personality, but I need to use my good looks to look forward to <em>something</em>.”</p><p>“My apologies,” Spock says, raising an eyebrow. “I assumed the benefit of our company was gift enough.”</p><p>McCoy snorts. “You heard him, Jimmy. We’re not good enough for your pretty face?”</p><p>“I need a little variety here and there. You’re rugged and handsome, and Spock’s all clean-shaven and handsome, and I’m all charming and handsome.” Kirk laughs and changes the topic. “Honestly, though, really glad you guys decided to show up today. I’m at that point where I would literally kill to switch bodies with one of you.”</p><p>“Don’t you dare,” McCoy says. “I’m not cleaning that up.”</p><p>“But you’d keep it a secret, I see. Hypothetically.”</p><p>“Completely hypothetically. This is not blanket permission. Do not murder people.”</p><p>“Spock, you’re a ride-or-die with me now too, right?”</p><p>Spock’s halt of breath is only momentary, small enough that neither human notices. “I do not believe that would be an efficient use of my life. It is unwise for the second-in-command of a ship to perish so soon after the Captain.” But he thinks, momentarily as well, of Jim’s death in radiation versus his own. He knows which he would prefer, and what he would do. It is wiser for a second-in-command of a ship to perish before his Captain.</p><p>Kirk makes a face. “It’s hypothetical. You two aren’t fun at all.”</p><p>To Spock’s surprise, as the conversation continues its course, it becomes more and more clear that Kirk has no idea about Spock’s collapse, and McCoy doesn’t tell. Instead, as McCoy studies the chart signed off by Kirk’s attending nurses and therapists, Kirk turns his interest to something else. They chat lazily about certain subjects, from Spock’s current curriculums to news that Kirk may soon be permitted to exit the hospital, before Kirk broaches the subject about sending Joanna a birthday present.</p><p>“No,” McCoy says staunchly, face set in stubborn lines. “Absolutely not.”</p><p>“I was unaware that you were familiar enough to warrant such traditions,” Spock observes. He has been mostly quiet for the while, on the basis that he is not close enough with McCoy to discuss topics such as family. Curiousness supersedes it.</p><p>“Bones has to take all her comm calls in my room,” Kirk explains. His eyes are shining. He is best when he is full of energy, a bright star in his own right. Spock is glad for his comm on the <em>Bradbury</em>; he is glad that Kirk is his friend, his Captain. “And still he won’t let me talk to her. But I’m at the point I might as well be family.”</p><p>“He crashes every single one of my comms. Might as well be raising an actual infant,” McCoy snarls, the opposite of Kirk’s mood.</p><p>“Speaking of infants. That makes me think of family--Bones has Joanna, and I have Sam. But you don’t really give off an only child vibe, Spock.” Kirk studies him. He squints and lets slip a grin. “Maybe an Uncle.”</p><p>“The most boring Uncle,” McCoy snorts. “Confirm it or deny it, Spock. Don’t let desperate minds remain at suspense.”</p><p>“I have…siblings.”</p><p>Spock instantly regrets it.</p><p>“Siblings?” McCoy appears as if he has been informed proof of the world existing as a simulation, and the sky has peeled itself to prove it. “Your Momma had to raise more than one of you?”</p><p>Kirk shushes him. “I want to hear this. Siblings? As in siblings <em>plural</em>? Were you the middle child? Bet you were the middle child.”</p><p>Spock is at once uncomfortable with the attention, but he supposes it would not hurt. He has Kirk’s full attention, and McCoy’s as well. “I was indeed the middle child.”</p><p>“What’re their names? Just the names,” Kirk says, quickly. “You don’t even need to tell me anything except the names—”</p><p>“Don’t worry. You don’t have to share anything you’re not prepared to. Sit <em>down</em>.” McCoy shoves Kirk down. “Listen, Jimbo. If you’re so obsessed with uncles, did I ever tell you about the one—”</p><p>“Which one?” Kirk asks, drawling, giving up on the prospect. He leans back on the biobed and tucks his hands behind his head. Even his feet cross at the ankles, though he still looks at Spock, as if self-promising to irrationally poke at something new later. “The one who takes kids by their ankles and threatens to throw them into the trash? Because that one’s a bonafide Uncle Jim original.”</p><p>“I should take you by your ankle and throw <em>you</em> in the trash.”</p><p>Kirk makes a face as Spock tries to make sense of why threats of disposing of children in trash receptacles would be considered a good idea. “That’s called plagiarism in some circles, you know.”</p><p>“I don’t want to be called out that by someone who had an academic trial.”</p><p>“See, that’s not stealing ideas, it’s having better ones. Spock’s the one who made a whole deal about the Kobayashi Maru. Right, Spock?” Kirk is nudging him. The touch is sudden, knocking Spock from his thoughts.</p><p>“It is procedure,” Spock replies, unsure of what Kirk intends for him, though he is not against the touch. “I would have done the same regardless, though I suppose in an alternate timeline, I might have applauded you for such unorthodox thinking.” Only in an alternate timeline—at least, given his understanding of his elder self. Thinking about his own solution in that vision to the no-win scenario, it is clear it was a page taken out of Kirk’s own book.</p><p>Kirk’s mouth drops open. “You were supposed to <em>defend</em> me. I thought you both were my best friends.”</p><p>It is McCoy who comes to Spock’s defense, chortling away as he waves Kirk’s hands away. “The best friends you’ll ever have are the kind of people who’ll tell you the truth no matter what, and you know it.”</p><p>“Keep telling yourselves that. I don’t know if you know this, but Marcus—you remember her, right?—says I have a reputation.” There is a relish to the end of Kirk’s words, a little lift of the chin and an overexaggerated grin. Spock frowns at her name.</p><p>“You are in contact with her?” he asks. “I do not believe this wise.”</p><p>“Why are <em>you</em> disapproving?” Kirk asks, raising up an eyebrow. “She’s on a different starship halfway across the galaxy right now.” It is knowledge that mollifies Spock only slightly; and then surprises him, for he did not believe he had attributed an emotional reaction to Marcus.</p><p>“A ‘reputation’.” McCoy snorts, concentrating more on previous words. “You sure sound proud of that.”</p><p>“Any news is good news, right? There’s nothing to watch on the holoTV, anyway.”</p><p>“What, the soap operas on channel not good enough for you?” McCoy reaches for the remote, gesturing to the screen set into the corner of the room. He flicks through channels. “You have no taste. This is good pay-per-view TV right there. If I were at home right now and I could put my feet up—”</p><p>Kirk grabs for the remote and pauses it. “How do you know it’s pay-per-view, Bones? You <em>pay</em> to watch <em>soap operas</em>?” He looks even more delighted than before, eyebrows raised up, and smile stretching from ear to ear. “Spock, did you <em>know</em> about this?”</p><p>“For crying out loud.” McCoy snatches the remote out of his hands. “A man can enjoy some sacred hobbies without judgment, can’t he? I didn’t make fun of you for playing 3D chess on your own.” He looks at Spock. “Or you.”</p><p>“Replaying a game in order to study it is a logical process,” Spock protests.</p><p>“This isn’t sacred. This is a <em>crisis</em>, Bones. 3D chess is unrelated.” Here, Kirk winks at Spock again. Spock wonders if he should learn to wink to remain in such ‘cahoots’.</p><p>McCoy groans, and presses play on the episode before pausing again. “<em>You</em> are the crisis. I haven’t even made it this far.”</p><p>“Exactly. So you should definitely watch them with me on your breaks. I bet we can figure out who Luke’s father is before the season finale.”</p><p>Spock is usually more verbose, but perhaps it is because it has been a while since he has simply listened rather than act as an active participant. In one-to-one conversations, Spock can be considered talkative when his interest becomes renewed. Among Kirk and McCoy now, he observes the back and forth of their bites—fleeting, without much thought. It is peaceful, open to his personal interjections back and forth. At the same time, it is enjoyable.</p><p>“I do not understand the intrigue of everchanging love triangles,” Spock interrupts in the middle of a partially heated dialogue. “If this truly was a story of a revolutionaries against an Empire, should Jar Jar Binks not be more concerned with military affairs than whether or not his love is to be returned? More emphasis on the politics of such a show would surely draw a larger audience.”</p><p>McCoy and Kirk look at each other.</p><p>“Should I or should you?” Kirk asks, to McCoy. “The plot’s kinda…” He makes a sound that combines a grunt and squeal, hand rotating back and forth at the wrist, before he turns his attention back to Spock. “I mean, it’s definitely not something you watch if you want something serious, but it can give the illusion of it? If you squint.”</p><p>“What is the purpose in watching something so insubstantial?”</p><p>“Fun,” Kirk suggests.</p><p>“Self-care,” McCoy decides, staring at Kirk, then at Spock. He remains staring at Spock for an inordinately uncomfortable amount of time. “Jim, what do we define as self-care again?”</p><p>Kirk freezes from where he was drinking from a cup of water. He knocks it unsteadily in surprise. “Wait,” he says, eyes wide, wiping spilled water from his chin. “I was supposed to memorize that? You were serious? Wait,” he says again, as if stunned by epiphany. “You watch this show for the <em>drama</em>?”</p><p>“I get enough drama in real life knowing you. Good to see some drama where I don’t need to be the one responsible for cleaning it up.”</p><p>Kirk snorts. “Well, if Bones likes it, you know it’s good entertainment. You should really watch,” Kirk says to Spock. “He should really watch it,” he says to McCoy, as if to drum up even more support. “I think he’d like it.”</p><p>“I usually don’t agree with Jim’s ever-growing collection of ingenious ideas, but you would,” McCoy says, to Spock. He snorts. “It’s trashy, but the plot twists might be logically intriguing enough for you to keep watching.”</p><p>Kirk and McCoy proceed to update Spock on the very many reasons why he should be equally invested the multiple storylines of a soap opera named <em>The Bold Jar Jar: Being Binks in the Big City</em>. In a sudden burst of shock, Spock realizes that he may perhaps be interested in watching the finale of a soap opera set in an alternate spacetime.</p><p>Fascinating.</p><p>--</p><p>(“See,” Kirk is explaining, as the scene plays before them on holoTV. “What you have to understand is that Jar Jar Binks’s starved for intimacy; he <em>craves</em> a deep connection, and he wants so much to have that—and that’s what makes his whole character arc so compelling outside of the plot.”</p><p>“And the funny thing is,” McCoy continues, “is that fan opinions are divided. Joanna grew up watching this show, and she loves him. Says she deserves the world. In my opinion, if you want emotional complexity and obligation, it’s high time you realize that your partner isn’t going to be the end all of end all sources for that.”</p><p>“But aren’t you curious?” Kirk demands. “Don’t you want to see him get a happily ever after?”</p><p>Spock studies Jar Jar Binks on the screen as the Gungan makes an impassioned argument. “I find myself more intrigued for his contributions to forging an alliance and his service in the Senate…and the potential consequences of failure and common flaws on the reputation of the individual.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, definitely a study as it is a parody in the importance of proper diplomatic training.”</p><p>Spock inclines his head, studying Kirk’s impatience. “This does not fascinate you? This scene would be an excellent case study to refer to for your future diplomatic missions.”</p><p>Kirk makes a face. “Of <em>course</em>, you’d make it all about work.”</p><p>“You are discontent with my answer.”</p><p>“It’s not that. It’s just—”</p><p>“Forget it,” McCoy chortles, rolling his eyes. “He spent half an hour trying to give you the backstory, because what Jim wants to know is if you think Jar Jar Binks going to find love, or if this entire journey is about how stupid it is to rely on that idea.”</p><p>“Okay, but sometimes all you need is just one person,” Kirk argues. “Yeah, it’s never going to be perfect, but it’s <em>something</em>. It doesn’t even need to be romantic.”</p><p>“We still talking about Jar Jar Binks here?”</p><p>“Ha, ha,” Kirk replies, not at all laughing.</p><p>“Listen, you stick with someone just because they make you feel things and you don’t put work into it, the relationship—nonromantic or otherwise—isn’t going anywhere but south.” McCoy jabs at the screen. “What Jar Jar Binks is doing here is trusting too much in the nature of others. Palpatine takes advantage of that.”</p><p>“Say I agree, and I kind of do, but…Bones, are you seriously hinting at Hellenistic subtext between Palpatine and Jar Jar Binks?”</p><p>“You’re one to talk with envisioning Jar Jar Binks as a lone ranger waiting for his true love to solve all his problems.”</p><p>“I’m just saying that what Jar Jar Binks is looking for? That’s hard to find,” Kirk says. “It’s hard to find it without strings, and somehow you want to root for him anyway.”</p><p>“What,” McCoy says. “You don’t seriously believe in the poorly written slop they’re trying to pass as true love?”</p><p> “Do you think you could?” Kirk scratches the back of his head, gaze ambivalent, but the laugh is half-there, a little faint. “I think real life’s a bit different than that.”)</p><p>--</p><p>It is later, as they are leaving, that Spock thanks McCoy for not informing Kirk. It is an awkward attempt, one that McCoy scrutinizes because in his good mood he does not immediately recall what Spock means. Spock repeats his thanks—simply thanks, in any case. Spock could not even begin to explain himself why it matters that his weakness, his inability to recognize his own limitations, feels shameful. He would keep it from Nyota partially, so that she were not concerned; he would keep it from McCoy to avoid being improperly harassed. As to why he would keep it from Kirk—from Jim—delving on the answers will make him think about things he should not want to think.</p><p>Things he should not want and does not have time to want. Excuses he is not sure is truth or opinion or false. A future he is not sure will become his own or is guaranteed to be.</p><p>And death, he thinks. A death that would have been his, but in this universe, had almost permanently become Jim’s.</p><p>“What do I need your thanks for?” McCoy demands, exasperated. “I’d rather you look after yourself. I’ve already got one infant to deal with, and he’s in his terrible twenty-sixes.” Still, for all those words, he walks Spock out to the end of the hallway, travelling down the escalator with him. “Listen, Spock. You have a month, and you can use to <em>rest </em>however much you’d like. But hear it from me: if you’re not going to consult with me on how to do it, at least speak to someone professional. Or someone who can really help. Someone you trust.” McCoy meets his eye, firm. “Someone maybe even more annoying than you.”</p><p>It is no lie that Spock hesitates to consult with his elder self, if not due to an unease of knowing someone who knows all that could be, then of the strangeness of what it is. Their engagements with each other have been kept limited to things related to this timeline, only as necessary, in respects to the desire to maintain the integrity of the timeline as it can be. There are unspoken rules: that Spock should not and cannot ask about the future, that Spock Prime will not and cannot give about the future, that clarification of events of the past and present are best left to Spock’s own eventual understanding.</p><p>“I was not under the impression you were aware—”</p><p>“I don’t. I don’t know the details other than where he came from and how. I don’t how you feel about him, but I know how you feel about yourself. I’ve worked with you, talked with you, and spent time with you. But I bet you anything you haven’t been asking anyone for help, have you?”</p><p>Spock’s silence is answer enough.</p><p>McCoy sighs. “Have a good rest, Spock. Desert sand and sun will probably do you some good. Don’t overthink it.”</p><p>It is not a question of what could and what should not be. McCoy is correct.</p><p>Once Spock returns back to his apartment, he sends a comm to request Spock Prime’s time. Just like the last, his future self-grants it unanimously.</p><p>--</p><p>Spock finds himself in maddening anticipation and dread about the same trip he has been taking for months on end. No visions follow him, and as the smaller Federation vessel is not so large to permit individual quarters, Spock shares his room with other graduated cadets who travel to the planets. There is smalltalk that Spock only barely participates in. Four of them are prepared to assist for a two-year term. The fifth is en route to their home planet another system or two away. Meditation does not calm him; it is sticky as it is blocky, but good enough is good enough, and Spock manages sleep.</p><p>He lands on Amniiba. At port, he greeted by Spock Prime who escorts him to his home without much ceremony. If he remains silent the entire way, it is not an offense his elder self takes. At times, Spock Prime may make comments to update Spock on the situation of the colony; as they travel to his home, he is then content to remain silent, and that is how Spock steadies his nerves and steels himself.</p><p>Eventually, Spock stalls long enough.</p><p>In the living room of his elder self, it is Spock’s turn to connect their minds and thoughts. This close, the skin under Spock’s fingers is old and sagged. For a moment, he traces the older Vulcan’s features with his eyes. He thinks how much Spock Prime resembles his father—the sharp of his brow, the turn of his ear. Then, he sees his mother in his elder self’s gaze, the closing of his eyes, the length of his lashes, the calm of his patience.</p><p>“My mind to your mind,” he murmurs. <em>My thoughts to your thoughts.</em></p><p>It is not hard once their minds are connected. It scarcely takes a moment.</p><p>The visions slide in over and over until…</p><p><em>Spock</em>, smiles the man, decked in command gold.</p><p>Each experience ties and wraps around itself like frayed knots in a limitless rope. Spock counts each drop, each fall. His throat seems to tighten. He feels as if he has exposed some part of himself that he wished to keep private.</p><p>He <em>is</em>, Spock realizes. Because he has grown to rely on these visions in some way or another. They are an oasis, a break in the middle of the business, that is now being shared with someone else.</p><p>And then, there comes the vision that Spock has not accustomed himself to for the strength and the harm it causes. The force of it beckons, pulls like a threaded needle through the eye of a storm. Grievances, inconsistencies, and thoughts all sieve away from him as the sentiments and experiences of the in-vision Spock take over.</p><p>They pull and pull until they are to tear him open.</p><p>Spock Prime’s mind grows urgent against Spock’s own, resonating a tightness, an emotional compromise that Spock is shocked to find he shares. He is there with him as the radiation kills them both. He is there with him as they stand on Vulcan, and the man smiles at him to see him—</p><p>
  <em>--My father says that you have been my friend. You came back for me—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>--would have done the same for me—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>--Why--?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>--Because the needs of the one—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I have been and ever shall be your friend.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yes. Yes, Spock!</em>
</p><p><em>Elder</em>, Spocks murmurs through the bond. He does not know if the other man can hear him. <em>Elder, you are…</em></p><p>They are crying, Spock thinks, knows without a doubt. Both of their eyes are damp, and he feels the tears ready to spill.</p><p><em>Jim</em>, Spock Prime whispers into Spock’s mind, to the man standing on the beach, hand outstretched as if beckoning him to come with him.</p><p>--</p><p>“Jim,” Spock Prime breathes, as he breaks the meld. His old hands shake—old hands that Spock remembers with clarity because he reached out with them in the dream, fingertips sliding in a gentle touch just so against…</p><p>Spock’s side goes cold. Then hot, overwhelmingly, as he understands. “Jim?” he echoes. His association with that name are at odds with the man in the vision. The man had brown eyes, and his Captain has blue. “That cannot be.”</p><p>And yet, he thinks it. He remembers the feelings, the transference of emotion in that vision that overwhelmed him.</p><p>Love, so full. Belonging, always, at this man’s side.</p><p>Here, knowing it is no simple overtransference from their meld, he cannot help but think it strange to consider beauty in such emotion. Part of him lingers over the taste of it, however much he should shy from its influence.</p><p>And yet.</p><p>Of course, he thinks. Of<em> course.</em></p><p>“You must tell me what you know,” Spock says gravely.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings: [Kirk's (2013) Into Darkness death, mentions/references/experiences of previous movie deaths, fears about death, mortality, and meaning]</p></blockquote></div></div>
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